Ghosts and Demons
by Wolfeschatten
Summary: Dean finally tells Sam the last words of John Winchester before dying, but neither can face the reality. Sam wanders to Beacon Hills after a woman blacks out and murders her seemingly unfaithful husband, but a ghost is the least of the town's problems. Werewolves, sacrifices, demons, and psychics complicate matters. SPN season 2. TW season 3A
1. Chapter 1

**I hope people like this idea cause I really liked it and thought it worked. The only thing is I had to screw with the time table a little. So Supernatural is simply moved forward by seven years so Sam was born in 1990 instead of 1983. Nothing has really changed except that the month in Teen Wolf may be in the middle of the school year instead of the beginning of it.**

**Timeline: after season 3A of Teen wolf and during the episode season 2 x 10 in Supernatural where Sam leaves Dean cause he kept his father's last words from him.**

* * *

><p>He had to get away, that much he knew. He needed to breathe, and after the bombshell Dean had dropped earlier that day, the only way he could do that was by putting a good couple hundred miles between him and his brother.<p>

Sam looked around first. It was late so no one should be out watching, but he'd rather not be on the cop's radar. No one was there, as he had thought, and Sam jimmied the ancient car's lock before getting in and jumping the engine's wires.

"Sorry, Dean," he mumbled, almost unconsciously.

~•~

**10:50 P.M.**

He had thought he was done with the heinous crimes—what with Jennifer Blake gone—and yet here he was again, looking at a bloody, mutilated corpse. But luckily—and there was something horribly wrong when a murder could be considered lucky—he had a clear suspect who admitted to the crime and was more importantly purely human. Of course she also claimed she blacked out after feeling an undeniable rage over a cheating husband.

Sheriff Stilinski sighed and nodded to the coroners who wanted to take away the dead man. His pocket buzzed but Sheriff Stilinski ignored it. At least he tried to, but the blasted thing kept repeatedly ringing.

"Not now," he snapped into the speaker without looking at the I.D. He ended the call and approached the victim's brother, who had been the one to call the police. According to his affidavit, he had forgotten to pick up the key for the office and had returned home. After entering the dining room and seeing his brother dead, he had called 911 and found his sister-in-law bloodied in a corner.

"And you didn't see anyone else in the house?" The sheriff queried.

Joshua Kyle, the dead man's brother, attempted to say no, but his voice caught. He cleared his throat roughly and shook his head, wringing his hands raw.

"No," he croaked. "And the, uh, doors were locked. God, I can't believe Chrissy would..." He broke off and wrought his hair with his hands. "Today was their one year anniversary."

Sheriff Stilinski was about to comfort the man when his phone vibrated again. He ignored it, but again it continued to buzz. Mr. Kyle, glad for the distraction but also confused, stared at the sheriff, pointing to the flashing gadget on his belt.

"Are you going to get that?"

The sheriff clenched his jaw and sighed. "Yeah, sorry. Excuse me." He stepped away from the witness, into the conjoining kitchen, and flipped open his phone. "Stiles," he sighed. "I'm working."

"I know," came his son's voice. There was a silence on the other end long enough for the sheriff to wonder if Stiles had dropped the call.

"Why are you calling me?"

"What killed him?" Stiles demanded in a rushed voice.

"A kitchen knife."

He paused again, although Stilinski heard muffled voices, like Stiles was covering the speaker with his palm. He exchanged a few obscured words then continued the bombardment on his dad. "Just a knife? No nibbling or teeth marks? What about sacrificial carvings? Cause the sacrifices looked like a psychopathic serial killer before we figure out Ms. Bla—"

"Stiles," the sheriff shouted a little too loudly. A few deputies glanced over curiously, but given everyone who worked in the Beacon Hills Police Station knew Stiles's tendency to involve himself in his father's affairs. "I'm busy."

"Yeah, but you never know—"

"It was a crime of passion. Wife thought husband was cheating and blacked out. When she came to, she was covered in blood and holding a kitchen cleaver. As tragic as it is, there' son need for you or your _friends_ involved."

"Oh."

Sheriff Stilinski couldn't tell if his son was relieved or disappointed. There was more muffled talking over the line and the sheriff could tell something wasn't right. Stiles was planning something, the sheriff just knew it.

"Well, good. Your dinner is in the fridge—the veggie burger. I'm going to stay at Scott's for a while. Don't wait up." Stiles ended the call before his father could get a word in edgewise.

_Yup_, the sheriff thought, staring at the blank screen of his phone, _his son was definitely planning something._

~•~

**10:57 P.M.**

Stiles stared at his phone screen before dropping it in his pocket and returning his gaze to the house encompassed by red and blue flashing lights. Scott and Isaac were looking at him expectantly, each from their spot in the blue jeep.

"He says it's not supernatural," Stiles stated.

"Yeah, but how often do these sorts of things actually happen?" Isaac asked softly.

"18.3 percent of the time in small towns," Stiles replied without hesitation. Scott raised his eyebrows in surprise, glancing behind him at his friend while Isaac sat in between the front seats stoically.

"Okay..."

"He said the woman thought her husband was cheating so she killed him. With a kitchen knife. Like a Christmas ham."

"Stiles!"

"Sorry." Stiles frowned and stared at his father's police car. Something felt off about this. Nothing happened in Beacon Hills that wasn't supernaturally influenced. Especially after they had done that spell to find the nemeton. Denton said there would be consequences, maybe this is the first of many things to happen.

"—we should go."

Stiles caught the tail end of what Scott was saying.

"What?"

Scott smiled shortly and repeated what he had said. "I still think we should go and check out the crime scene. I mean we're here and there's no reason _not_ to make sure nothing's wrong."

Stiles nodded slowly. "They should be heading out soon. But I am _not_ climbing through another window."

~•~

**2:16 A.M.**

Scott wrinkled his nose as soon as he stepped through the ground floor window. Stiles wondered what was wrong until he too smelt one of the foulest scents he'd ever smelt before. The tangy copper was so thick and overwhelming; Stiles could physically taste the pungent odor. He waved his hand in front of him in an attempt to blow away the smell, the light of the flashlight spiraling wildly across the family pictures in the living room. Scott caught Stiles's wrist and halted the movement, giving him "the alpha look" as Stiles had dubbed it.

"We don't want anyone to know we're here," he reminded his friend.

No sooner had he said it did Isaac crash through the open window, jumping to his feet and brushing himself off like nothing had happened. He nodded to his surrogate alpha then switched on his own flashlight. Stiles grinned at Scott before making his way to the hallway, glancing at the pictures as he went by. A petite woman with cropped brunette curls beamed in every picture and beside her was an equally happy young man. Compared to his wife, the man was a giant, probably able to put up his own against Derek.

Stiles's grin slipped off his face as he remembered off his face as he remembered this bouncy, giggling woman had just carved her husband up because of a hunch. Again, a feeling clenched his gut—a feeling that something was definitely out of the ordinary.

Stiles, closely followed by Scott and Isaac, stopped short the moment he saw the aftermath of the crime. Five enormous puddles of dried blood stained the off-white carpet like a star. Little flecks of blood deviated from the larger splotches and created a small outline of the deceased's body, like someone had painted with the blood. Stiles thought the imprint looked off, the size of the body much smaller than the ginormous man in the photos.

"Oh, God," whispered Isaac, pinching closed his nose.

Stiles stooped closer to the stains, angling his flashlight to get a better look at the figure. To him, it looked like the blood was purposely spattered, the way it was perfectly sprayed along the floor, and it looked familiar. Stiles just couldn't place where he had seen the scene before. It also didn't hell his flashlight was continuously cutting out.

"Scott, hand me your flashlight. I think mine's dying."

Scott passed his over, but even before it changed hands, the second flashlight sputtered a few times before it too died. The three friends exchanged glances. Isaac eyed his own light with trepidation, holding it like it might burn him.

"It's probably nothing, right?" Scott suggested. "I mean we use them all the time. They're probably just out of batteries."

"I changed the batteries two days ago," Stiles deadpanned. He smacked his flashlight a few times, earning a couple strobes of light, but in the end it stayed dead. "Great. Scott, Isaac, your spidey sense tingling yet?"

Scott made a show of sniffing the air, two glowing red eyes illuminating out of the darkness. Isaac followed the alpha's example. Not for the first time, Stiles felt a slight flicker of jealousy, but then it was gone. He didn't want to be a werewolf. He was happy being research guy, guy with a plan.

"Do you hear that?" whispered Isaac suddenly. He was asking Scott, but Stiles still attempted to hear whatever the beta was hearing.

"No," he said.

"Yes." Scott threaded lightly over to the base of the stairs. "It sounds like it is coming from up there."

"What is it?"

The werewolves ignored their friend unintentionally and began to mount the stairs. They walked sideways, angling their heads to hear better. Stiles scowled and followed behind his friends, waving his arms widely.

"Feel like letting me in on the secret? Guys? Normal human here, with _normal_ hearing!" Still receiving no reply, Stiles was left to watch Scott and Isaac as they neared to second floor.

"Guys—!"

"Stiles, shut up!"

Stiles snapped his jaw shut.

"It sounds like...someone's screaming in a whisper."

"Well that makes sense. Remind me to sign you up for a poetry class," Stiles groused sarcastically. He met Scott's glare evenly and continued in a slightly less aggravating tone, "can you make out what they're saying?"

"No," began Scott, but he stopped suddenly, causing Isaac to lightly crash into him. He held up a silencing finger before Stiles could break the quiet, but within a minute, Stiles didn't need an explanation from his supernaturally gifted friends. He _saw_ it.

A woman stood on the landing of the stairs, shadowed by an ominous light behind her. She looked young with vibrantly golden hair that cascaded along one side of her head. She wore a radiant, silk gown that, under normal circumstances, would have been beautiful; however, in the baleful darkness, she had a monstrously beautiful appearance. Not to mention the blood that was coursing down her arms in rivers. Looking closer, more blood stained the golden evening gown like she had been leaning over a bloody surface. _Or a bloody corpse_, supplied Stiles.

"_Get out!_" The woman hissed, though Stiles was unable to see any actual movement. It was like the voice had come from the walls themselves.

"Uh..." Scott stuttered intelligently.

"_**Get out!**_" The lights everywhere in the house flickered on and off rapidly, the radio and T.V. flicking through every station and channel, the photos rattling against the drywall.

All of a sudden the woman charged, but not in any sense that made her animalistic or human. Her form flickered and reappeared as it lunged for the boys on the stairs. In their rush to escape the bloody apparition—_because it is an apparition_, concluded Stiles—Scott and Isaac tumbled bodily over each other and down the flight of stairs. They landed in a pile at Stiles's feet, and the three used each other as leverages to get _out_ of the house. All three boys stumbled to the front door in the darkness, forgoing any thoughts or attempts at being stealthy. They shouted and yelped as they fumbled with the door, eventually pouring out onto the porch.

The flailing limbs continued as their eyes remained fixed behind them and they fled the house and whatever that woman was. However their flight was halted when they collided with a solid figure. Again, the boys called out in surprise, and fear.

"Dad?" Stiles squeaked.

Sheriff Stilinski was watching his son and his friends with disbelief, bemusement, and plain amusement. He glanced behind the boys before his gaze shifted to furious and fell on the three delinquents.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He hissed. "This is a crime scene!"

He ran a hand down his face, trying to rid himself of the stress he obviously felt, before he snagged the scruff of Stiles's hoodie and began dragging his son off the porch. Predictably, Scott and Isaac followed closely behind, still watching the front door with fear.

"You can't even break into a house without making a big scene," the sheriff admonished. "You could have woken the entire street with the amount of noise you were making. And what was the deal with the light show?" Stiles's father had directed them back to the blue jeep and lightly tossed Stiles against the contorted hood. "Not to mention, I already told you the case was un-supernatural!"

"Wouldn't it be referred to as normal at that point?"

The glare fixed on Stiles was enough to freeze the sun. His father pointed to the driver's seat without a word. Stiles dropped his head in shame but still didn't get in.

"Okay, fine. But listen—"

"No, Stiles. I told you to stay out of it—"

"But it's not—"

"—and you still went—"

"—we saw—"

Scott and Issac watched the back and forth dialogue silently. Both Stilinski's were climbing in volume as one tried to top the other.

"Enough!" barked Scott, his eyes flashing red. The two fell silent and stared at the alpha in shock. "What Stiles is trying to say is that it's not as normal as it seems."

The sheriff's face fell and he looked back and forth between the three teenagers. "What do you mean?" he questioned warily.

"What we mean," Stiles said, taking the lead, "is that there is no way that woman killed her husband without a little help."

~•~

—**A few days later—**

Sam wasn't sure this was his best plan, but he didn't really have any other idea or choice. He'd just have to hope Ellen wouldn't turn him in to his brother, who would without a doubt be murderously pissed. He had ditched his phone after the fourth call, and he had only just picked up a new one when he thought of a plan.

Steeling his reserve, Sam parked his stolen station wagon and walked into the Roadhouse. It was just as he remembered, which was comforting since everything in his life was so recently turned upside down. The bar was still inherently dark and stuffy, and most of the patrons were either drinking and playing pool or cleaning various weaponry and bragging about a recent kill. Sam guessed today was one of those days where hunters outnumbered the normal people ten to one. Actually normal people were too frightened to enter a den like this.

Behind the bar, buffing the counter, Ellen stopped mid-stroke as her gaze fell on the man who had just wandered in. Sam froze, waiting to gauge her reaction, and let out a sigh of relief when she smiled.

"Sam," she greeted. "What brings you here?"

"Hey, Ellen," he smiled in return, plopping down on a bar stool. "I wasn't sure if I should come seeing as what happened last time I saw you and Jo."

"Nonsense," the bartender waved him away with a slight smile.

"How're you? And Jo?" He asked while fiddling with the edge of the wooden counter. Ellen caught Sam's glancing about the bar and casually went back to cleaning her station, this time picking up a few glasses and scrubbing them clean with a rag.

"I'm good. Now Jo, I'm not really sure," Ellen said without meeting Sam's eyes. "She sends post cards now and again, but I haven't seen her in weeks." She smiled sadly and slid a beer over the counter. "After she worked that job with you boys, she decided she wanted to keep on hunting. I said 'not under my roof,' and she said 'fine.'"

Sam fingered his glass awkwardly and smiled guiltily at the floor, not wanting to meet Ellen's accusing glare. Finally he muttered, "I guess I'm probably one of the last people you want to see then." When he looked up, though, Ellen's expression was anything but accusing. Instead it was softly pained, maternal.

She gave a throaty laugh, "Oh, don't get me wrong. I wish I could blame the hell out of you boys. It'd be easier. Truth is, it's not your fault, Sam, none of it is. I want you to know that I forgave your daddy a long time ago for what happened to my Bill. I just don't think he ever forgave himself." There were tears in her voice but Ellen shook her hair out of her face and rested her arms against the countertop. "Now, tell me what's wrong."

Sam paused deliberately and took a gulp of his beer before replying. He wondered how much of the story he could avoid talking about, if he could get what he wanted without mentioning Dean once. His hopes were dashed as Ellen seem to sense his inner turmoil.

"You wanna tell me why you're not with your brother?"

Sam's gaze met hers sharply. "He called you?" he inferred softly.

"He's been calling, worried sick, looking for you. What's goin' on between you two?"

Sam's jaw tensed and he glared fixedly at the water sweating down to side of his glass. He was probably angrier that Dean had kept it from him than what his father had actually said. Sure it disturbed him beyond anything that his father told Dean he might have to _kill_ his little brother, but Dean should have trusted Sam enough to tell him. But Dean didn't trust him. Sam was just his rebellious, idiot brother who ran away after having a temper tantrum, and apparently the next time he has a fit, his big brother may have to put him down, like an animal, a monster.

Sam ground out between clenched teeth, "he lied." He forced himself to breath in and out in an attempt to calm himself down. He looked to Ellen imploringly. "Look, I just need some help from Ash."

Ellen frowned, but when she realized she wasn't going to get anything more out of him, she nodded her acceptance. She excused herself momentarily to fetch the ex-MIT student and busied herself with cleaning the bar after she had returned with him; although Sam could tell she was still listening to his and Ash's conversation.

"You want me to do what now?" The man drawled.

"Make a nationwide search. Anyone who had a nursery fire the night of their six month birthday." Sam tried to ignore the feeling he was being watched. He had chosen the farthest corner of the bar and was talking as quietly as he could, but he still felt like someone unwanted was listening. "I need to find other people, other psychics, like me."

Ellen suddenly appeared opposite them. "I thought not all of them fit the pattern. Not all of them had house fires as you did."

"No," Sam agreed. "But a few of us did, and that will have to be enough."

~•~

Ash emerged from his back room with a torn slip of paper in his grip. He dropped onto the bar stool next to Sam and picked up his half-drunken beer. Ash waited dramatically, flourishing his paper for attention. He sighed contentedly after a big gulp of Sam's beer. He took another swig, observing Sam from the corner of his eyes, and didn't set the glass down until Ellen scoldingly said, "just tell us what you got, Ash."

"Three folks fit the profile nationwide. Born in '90, mother died in a nursery fire, the whole shebang."

"Three?" Sam scoffed in disbelief. "That's it?"

Ash looked at Sam with offense, like he couldn't believe Sam would dare question his findings. He flicked his sheet of paper and held it at arm's length, reading aloud: "Sam Winchester from Lawrence, Kansas, Max Miller from Saginaw, Michigan, Andrew Gallagher from Guthrie, Oklahoma. Three names," the genius concluded proudly, although he still remained as emotionless as ever.

Sam deflated, though he tried not to show it, his eyes drifting to his hands resting on the bar counter. He'd been so sure there would have been more names, more children whose lives were ruined by the yellow-Eyed Demon. Ellen sighed and came around to the other side to stroke Sam's back comfortingly. It was only when a patron came to pay for his drinks did she go back to work after a few minutes of consoling Sam. The man set down his myriad collection of newspapers to take out his wallet, and he left without gathering them again. A slight breeze of fresh air wafted through the joint, rustling and upsetting any assembling of papers. The man's tabloids skittered off the counter and fell at Sam's feet, and he picked them up, half-heartedly glancing at the top story.

It was some Californian post from a small town. That wasn't what interested Sam. What did, however, was the coverage of a recent homicide. The reporter detailed the brutal crime, quoting a Sheriff Stilinski about having a suspect in custody. The suspect, Christine Kyle, claimed to have blacked out while experiencing a fit of rage. During the unaccountable time, she supposedly barbarically murdered her husband on the night of their one year anniversary over a suspected affair. The police are planning on prosecuting the woman.

Sam read and re-read the article. It wasn't that he had been _looking_ for a job; he just needed a distraction. _Plus_, Sam figured, _burning the hell out of a ghoul might be somewhat therapeutic_. He tried not to think how much that thought sounded like something Dean would have said, or the fact that could be a sign of him turning to the Dark Side.

Ellen returned to the side in front of the counter and snagged the paper curiously. "You lookin' for a job, Sam?"

"No," Sam spun on his stool to better face the bartender. "Have you ever heard of Beacon Hills before?"

Ellen glanced at the paper silently. "Couple a times. There've been a few animal killings that have gained the attention of some hunters. No one' sphere now from what I know."

Sam nodded. He pulled out his wallet and dropped a few bills for the beer—_which Ash drank most of_, Sam thought dryly—but Ellen snatched them up and shoved them back into his hand, smiling motherly and sadly as she walked him to the door.

"Where you gonna go, sweetie?"

"California."

Ellen stopped in the doorway and bit her lip. "Sam," she started. "I gotta call Dean. I gotta tell him where you're at."

Sam froze, his hands inches from the car door. He shifted his weight and tried to think of a way to explain his feelings without the reason for them. "Ellen, Dean...he tried to protect me, but the way he did it made everything worse. I need to sort things out for myself, and that mean's without Dean trying to shield me from—everything." Sam waved his arm broadly.

Ellen still didn't look convinced.

"Please, Ellen," Sam pleaded. "Don't tell Dean."

Sam wasn't sure she was going to answer. Actually, he was pretty sure she was going to turn right around, pick up the phone, and hold Sam at gun point until Dean got there, but slowly and reluctantly, she nodded.

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><p><strong>So tell me what you all think. As always comment<strong>

**Also I will have Dean in the story, I'm using 2x10 as a guideline so he will be meeting up with the other characters **


	2. Chapter 2

Scott jumped in surprise as Stiles slammed a stack of papers the size of a college dissertation onto the library table. The two were alone for the first time in what seemed like months. Isaac, Allison, Lydia, or someone were always with them, but for a short while, the two best friends had agreed to meet up at the local public library to do some research. Stiles had run off to print off half the Internet while Scott in the meantime had dozed off. He knew Stiles could handle the searching and printing; that had never been Scott's thing. He had, however, fallen asleep on top of an old journal filled with ghost stories and a collection of monster allegories.

The grouch of a librarian scowled at the boys and vehemently shushed them. Stiles leered back at the woman before sifting through his moil. Scott eyed the pile warily. He never understood how his friend managed to separate the Hollywood gimmicky myths and the true answers. But Scott also acknowledged the fact that his friend also tended to over indulge in the fact finding. Stiles slid over a few articles for Scott to read, but the alpha raised his eyes in question at the article's author.

"Ghostfacers?" Scott read incredulously. "Stiles, I thought we were trying to find real information on ghosts."

Stiles stared at him flatly. "Don't doubt me, Lassie. These guys were down in Texas investigating some haunted house. Had this whole website dedicated to it, even got the ghost on tape."

"Really? Show me."

Stiles scratched at the back of his head. "Well, it's a really crappy video...and it's fuzzy, but I swear it's the real deal," he finished hurriedly, seeing that his friend was growing more doubtful with every word. He went back to reading his own copy of the article and frowned at the corny texts. "Okay, maybe they overdue it and all, but the clip is just like what happened at the house. Their flashlights were flickering and their camera was all static-y."

"Like ours," Scott realized.

"Exactly."

The librarian sauntered over and placed both hands on the table menacingly. She smiled sickeningly. Stiles and Scott exchanged glances, and Stiles read off her name tag with a fake, lopsided grin.

"Can we help you—Jill?"

"Yes," she bit out sweetly. "I was wondering if you boys would like a dictionary?"

Stiles stared open mouthed curiously. "No, why?"

"A library is a quiet place, and I'm not sure you boys understand the meaning of 'quiet.'" To prove her point she jabbed her bony finger at the sign that posted in big black letters, 'Quiet, Please.' Scott bit the inside of his cheek and gathered up all the papers and books he and Stiles had collected, shoving them none too kindly into his school bag. He jerked his head at Stiles and apologetically excused themselves from the library. As soon as they exited the building, Scott had to force Stiles to keep moving as he had stopped to make obscene gestures at the public building. For the second time in minutes, Scott smiled apologetically at a mother who was glaring daggers and shielding her young child's eyes while entering the library.

"I think we should go see your dad," Scott admitted as they walked back to the jeep.

Stiles gave up his rude assault and jogged alongside his friend, glancing at him questioningly.

"We never saw the body. Maybe the—ghost—did something that might give us a clue of who died," Scott explained while Stiles started up his car, throwing an exasperated glare at the passenger seat. "The first time around, I mean."

"Because we haven't seen enough dead bodies for one lifetime," drawled Stiles, and he pulled out onto the road. Despite his oral reluctance, he drove in the direction of the police station. "Do you want me to be scarred for life? Cause that's where I'm headed."

Scott grinned in reply.

~•~

The station was relatively deserted. Almost all of the deputies on duty were either reading a magazine while they reclined at their posts, playing cards, or shooting crushed balls of paper into the waste basket. They even looked up excitedly or expectantly when the two boys strode in, but since Stile's presence was nothing new and since Scott was almost as common as the sheriff's kid in recent times, they sighed in disappointment. Everyone fell silent at the awkwardly despondent entrance, but as Stiles generally thrived in awkward situations, he waved his greetings to anyone who made eye contact and wove his way down the hall to where the stairs were. The boys were, however, intercepted before they could get past the vending machines.

The sheriff, arms crossed and an unsurprised expression plastered on his face, blocked their path to the city morgue. "Boys," he greeted dryly. "What're you doing here?"

Stiles predictably took the lead, leaning against the frame around the vending machines. "Dad! What are you doing here?"

"I work here."

Stiles nodded and bit his lip. "Yes. And I came to say hi." At the sheriff's unchanging expression, he added defensively, "can't a son just visit his father's work without being questioned?"

"No."

"Ah," the younger Stilinski's face fell. He glanced behind to Scott and then nodded to himself. He met his father's gaze, squinting. "We need to see the body."

Sheriff Stilinski was already shaking his head. "You boys have been researching this for two days, with no luck. Do you want to tell me why you aren't just asking the Argents for help?" He pressed the two boys the sheriff's office where they could talk about ghosts, zombies, or whatever and not locked in a rubber room for observation. For extra measure, he dropped the shades.

"Because they're _werewolf_ hunters. Not ghost hunters, which we aren't even sure exist," Stiles stated like it was obvious. "Plus they're not exactly Scott's biggest fans, especially now he and Allison are broken up."

"Stiles!" objected Scott.

"What? It's true!" Stiles waved away his previous thought process. "Anyways, that's not important. What is, though, is the very dead man whose corpse is being held in the basement at thirty six degrees Fahrenheit."

After a few minutes of a moral dilemma—as according to the sheriff, the body is not something seventeen year olds should see—and a literally physical problem of allowing two minors to prod at a corpse in the city moratorium, in the middle of an investigation no less, the sheriff finally acquiesced. He led away the attendants in the basement and gave the boys five fingers with a meaningful glare. Immediately, Scott and Stiles rushed to the metal wall and slid out the metal slab supporting their dead guy. Scott swallowed roughly; no matter how many times he had seen and smelt a decomposing corpse, he would never get used to the wrenching feeling every time the putrid, copper taste invaded his overly sensitive nostrils. Stiles seemed to be experiencing the same gut reaction, although he was moving past it and drawing back the white sheet. His hand was shaking, but Scott couldn't tell if it was from the massive dose of Adderall his friend had downed over the past few days or from disgust at vetting yet another dead person.

Whatever thoughts Scott was previously mulling over were lost as soon as he saw the damage the petite woman had done. Her husband's neck was nearly severed from his body—a poor job too as the cut was jagged and brutally savage—and there were many incisions that hadn't come from the "y" shaped autopsy scar. Probably the most scarring part were the words, which were forever burned into Scott's mind. Words describing how unfaithful her husband had been were _carved_ into his chest and arms like bloody tattoos, and it looked like Christine Kyle had plunged her hands in and tore the man's heart right out of his rib cage. As if that hadn't been enough, Robert Kyle's ring finger was missing.

Stiles was the first to retch. He stumbled away, coughing, and Scott wasn't far behind. Neither boy actually vomited; however, it was still unpleasant. Finally mastering their involuntary impulses, they slowly moved back to the side of the mutilated corpse.

"There is no way _that_ woman could do this much damage," gagged Stiles.

Scott had to agree. The man was like a navy seal, not to mention the shattered rib cage the assailant had ripped through. Scott could barely imagine doing that himself, although he'd never even think of trying. Even on a full moon. He couldn't even picture Isaac or Derek—well maybe Derek when he's pissed off—ripping through someone's chest because they believed they had betrayed them. Although, Scott had to admit he'd noticed a feeling of strength since he learned of the "True Alpha" situation. It was more of a mental capability, he pondered.

"What did you say the cause of death was again?" Scott asked.

His friend paused whatever process he had been in the middle of, some sort of categorizing the injuries and such, to gape at his friend in such a way that read, 'did you really just ask that?' His eyes flicked to the gaping hole in the victim's chest and he returned obviously, "a heart attack."

At that moment, the morgue doors swung open, and the sheriff rambled inside. He caught sight of the two glaring at each other. He ignored the angry stares and waved at the door behind him. "Time's up."

"What? No, we need a few more minutes."

"How will five more minutes help you find out what killed him, 'cause I've got news for you: the person who did that," the sheriff couldn't even look at the damage, just vaguely pointing to the white sheet, "is in county at the moment awaiting arraignment."

Stiles clenched his jaw and bit back his smart-ass reply, as Scott knew he had one. Stiles, at this point, was playing off instinct, just like the rest of them. No one knew how to handle a ghost, and in reality, none of them even knew ghosts were real until four days ago when one had literally thrown them out of a house.

"Maybe if we talked to Christi—"

"Hell no, Stiles," snapped the Sheriff before his son could even finish his sentence. He glanced behind him to make sure no one had heard and made an effort to lower his voice. "I wasn't even sure if I should let you look at this, but talking with a suspect before she is even indicted yet? Out of the question."

"But, Dad—"

"No, Stiles." The sheriff stated un-movingly and adamantly. "I am the father and sheriff. I am supposed to be figuring out the answers, protecting you, not you protecting me."

Scott understood the looks that washed over both his friend and his friend's father's face. Understanding of every situation since the nemeton and the past situations the sheriff had not been able to solve sue to a lack of information ran down the older man's visage, and Stiles's guilt was clear. His father was so far out of his element with the Supernatural, and he still had to turn to his son for help.

~•~

The baring horn was what drove the impala to swerve back to the right. Dean was finding it impossible to focus on the pavement burning in the Nevada sun. It had been four days and three nights since his baby brother had ditched him, snuck out after saying he wouldn't, hitched a ride, and refused to make any communication with him. Dean had made so many attempts to call Sam, called in all his favors—Dean wouldn't actually consider them favors, more like pulling rank in whatever sheriff's department or police station he passed through—and still there was no sighting of Sammy.

Dean figured he must have ditched his phone in some sort of tunnel; it was the only explanation as to why not even the phone companies could find the GPS signal. He hoped Sam hadn't gone so far and completely isolated himself, but the look of betrayal and anger etched in Dean's memory was equally as convincing.

Not even the blaring of Highway to Hell could lift Dean's spirits. A mile marker of seventy-two flashed past the impala windows, the nearest town in whatever back water alley of Nevada he was currently driving through. Ever since Dean had left Oregon, He had been driving through the most random towns, highways, and directions in the hopes of finding his baby brother. He had even called Bobby and Ellen, although only the former had answered. Sadly, he wouldn't answer any questions until he learned why Dean had lost track of Sam and what was going on between the two of them.

Dean exhaled despondently and floored the gas pedal. He wasn't in the mood to wait until he reached the next town.

~•~

Beacon Hills had the appearance of a classic Californian town, as well as many common horror-movie characteristics, Sam concluded upon first glance of the small town. The county had an abundance of dark woods surrounding many dark alleyways, abandoned mansions and factories, and the coincidences occurring in such a small area was implausible. However, besides the mass amount of strange and unexplainable deaths, Beacon Hills had the draw of an apple pie life, somewhere Sam had thought of moving to with Jess.

The center of town was the same as anywhere else: a few shops and cafes, a sheriff's station, a school farther down the main street, and many neighborhoods and cul-de-sacs that encircled everything but the woods. The Cedar Tree cul-de-sac was what held Sam's attention.

Four days had passed since Christine Kyle had lost control and brutally murdered her husband. Under the alias of _Strange Occurrence Tribunal _writer Dave Hope, he had learned almost everything about the woman and the press-released facts about the killing. Twenty-nine year old art major, Christine Beauchene married technician Robert Kyle, who was born and raised in Beacon Hills. The two married last year and nothing indicated unhappiness of any kind in their lives. Christine Kyle had never had any interaction with the law except for some parking tickets—that is until she had plunged her hands into her husband's chest.

Parking in front of the house, Sam evaluated the situation. He could easily go through the proper channels, flashing his FBI badge stored in the glove box, but that would raise more questions of why a lone FBI agent was looking into a small town murder. No, Sam decided. He pocketed his lock-pick set and sidled to the side door. As he had hoped, the police had either been too busy to relock the house, or they just hadn't cared since the people who owned the place were either dead or in jail.

The side door immediately entered the kitchen, the room openly connected to the dining room. Like most of the town, the rooms were rather vintage and typical. The tile floor was marked by dirty work boots, most of the kitchen knives had been confiscated, and there was a massive stain of crimson brown in the carpet, but nevertheless the room looked like it had been pulled from a homemaker's magazine. The hallways were the same, paintings of the sea and the woods at twilight hanging up on the walls alongside pictures of a cheery couple.

Sam tried to ignore the prickling sensation in his stomach as he thought of the crime scene photos he had seen after hacking the autopsy report. At one point he passed a group photo of the Kyles and another couple, the man looking similar to the victim. _The brother_, he guessed, _and his girlfriend_.

According to the EMF indicator, everything in the house was _natural_. The only bigger spike in the signal Sam received was as he roamed the device around the blood stain, and he had already highly suspected that would be the case. Nevertheless, he felt a slight satisfaction at being right as he whispered, "definitely a spirit." Occasionally there would be a spritz of whirring and flashing lights, but the entire first floor and second floor was clean, much to Sam's surprise and dismay.

There was only one time when Sam thought he saw something but decided it was a trick of the light and a lack of sleep. The second floor landing had caught the sun's rays in just the right angle, highlighting the dust that floated in the air. Nothing was there, but Sam _felt_ like there had been. Shaking his head, Sam headed for the front door and absentmindedly rubbed at his temples.

He could sneak back to his rusty, old pickup truck—he had ditched the station wagon at some town between the Roadhouse and Northern California, the same place he had ditched his phone—from the place he had come in from, but Sam couldn't convince himself to give a damn. He was just so tired, and outmaneuvering someone who wasn't there was too much for him to consider.

Sam stopped, his hand hovering inches from the flaking handle, as his pocket vibrated incessantly. On the screen of his new burner flashed his brother's name. His brother whom he couldn't seem to completely leave. When Sam had dropped his phone, he had kept the SIM card and therefore his contacts and calls. Although Sam admitted he missed Dean, he was angrier. He stared at the flashing name until the words missed call rested by the name, and new voicemail hovered underneath.

Sam looked back up, about to hop into his car, but was greeted with the scene of an old jeep, in lieu of the empty street he had expected.

There was an old jeep parked across the street, in front of which stood two adolescents. Both were staring fixedly on Sam, and he responded in the same fashion. The first boy, Sam assumed he was about seventeen or eighteen years old, was a classic, gangly teen, but he had this look about him, where his mind was a thousand miles ahead of everyone around him. When he caught sight of Sam coming from the victim's house, his eyes narrowed and he knocked his friend insistently on the shoulder. The friend, who also looked about eighteen, pushed the boy's hand away. Something about him seemed different than any other teen his age, something ominous and powerful, as much as he tried to hide it. Sam sighed as the two made a beeline for his old truck, and he prepared himself for his cover story.

"Hey!" the first boy called brusquely.

"Can I help you, boys?" Sam asked politely, but also tersely.

"Yeah, what were you doing in there? Don't you know what happened in there? It's a crime scene."

Sam glanced back at the house then to the boys. They were too suspicious Sam concluded, his own suspicions growing. He forced himself to calm down. He was being paranoid; these two were just average, naïve teenagers. "It's okay," he said, making pacifying gestures. "I'm work for the FBI." Sam nodded in question and slowly opened his car door to retrieve his forged badge. "See?"

Both boys observed the I.D. intently, the second boy leaning in more closely than the first. They didn't appear too happy about it, but they conceded he was actually a fed and backed off, if only minutely compared to before.

The first boy smirked, his gaze falling on Sam's less than official clothes and crappy car. "Nice ride, fed."

Sam tried to return the grin. "I'm on vacation."

"Then why are you breaking and entering into a crime scene…" the second boy asked. He narrowed his eyes at the agent. "…Agent Robert Plant?"

"Curiosity. I read about the murder, just thought I'd take a look because some of the elements match an old case."

It was like watching a lightbulb. The two boys gawked simultaneously then snapped shut their mouths in an attempt of indifference. Sam grinned and crossed his arms and leaned against the driver door. "And what about you? What are you two skulking around a crime scene?"

"Me?" the first boy pointed to himself then to his friend. "Nothing. I mean we're not. Skulking. I'd say more of lurking. Maybe waiting and watching."

"Stiles," his friend hissed. He glared a moment longer before addressing Agent Plant. "We were just curious."

"Well," Sam sighed, nodding to the jeep across the street. "Why don't you find a better way to satisfy your curiosity."

~•~

Stiles slammed his door shut, frustrated. Scott looked at him questioningly.

"Why can't someone in this town just get murdered?" He griped. "And why can't people just be who they say they are?!"

"You noticed then?"

Stiles threw a cheeky grin at the passenger side. "He may want to invest in a better cover name."

"What?"

"Robert Plant? One of the guitarist for Led Zeppelin?" He glanced at the werewolf. "How'd you know he was a fake?"

"His badge number. Dad taught me how to check a fake, and his was well made but wrong."

Stiles hummed in approval and seemed impressed enough that his friend could tell a forgery. He observed the false agent clambering into his car easily despite his large stature. "You get any werewolf-y scent of this guy? My guess is another psychopathic, sacrificing lunatic."

Scott shook his head. "No, nothing. He did smell a little off though, and it seemed familiar."

"Familiar how?"

"Like I've smelt it before."

"Like when we've been running for our lives before or in the supermarket before? Come on, Scott. I'm always the one getting chased and I want to be ahead of it this time." Stiles heaved a sigh and turned on the car. "Whatever _it_ is."

Scott pulled out his phone and immediately hit the green call button. "Isaac," he said after a few rings. He pointed at the truck that was just pulling out onto the street. "Stiles, follow him—not too close—wait, Isaac, I need you to get everyone and meet me somewhere…I don't know yet…I'll text you the address…Yeah, just bring Lydia."

Stiles's head snapped to the side in mention of the banshee, although he also managed to swerve the jeep dangerously to the left. He was forced to focus back on the road and the red truck a few cars ahead.

~•~

"And you just _suspect_ he's involved. Ignoring the fact he only just came to Beacon Hills," puffed Lydia intelligently.

"We don't know he just got here," defended Stiles, ducking back behind the building the group of five adolescents was using as a barricade. "He is impersonating a federal officer."

"So report him," she drawled pointedly. Lydia slid out her hand mirror and flicked some strawberry curls from her face and puckered her lips. "Your father _is_ the sheriff."

Allison couldn't help but agree with Lydia's logic. To say she was weary of the new turn of events was an understatement. From the moment Scott and Stiles revealed they were investigating a _ghost haunting_, Allison had felt even more enervated. She wanted to tell her father, convinced he'd know what to do, but Scott and Stiles had insisted she wouldn't. She agreed with the exception that if things escalated then she could tell Chris Argent everything without hesitation.

After being retrieved by Isaac, already accompanied by Lydia, the three had met up with Scott, awkwardly, and Stiles behind some old café in town. The boys explained the strangely violent death, the incorporeal woman that had charged them, and their newly elected decision to re-vet the house, and finally they disclosed the faux-FBI agent encounter.

"Will you just do this?" Stiles returned snappishly and incredulously, like the tone he had been using when Lydia was reluctant to explore her 'banshee' abilities.

Lydia fixed him with her cool glare before pocketing the mirror and straightening her jacket. The four watched as she stepped back into the flow of pedestrians and walked straight up to the imposter, who was standing and reading the yellow pages.

"Hi," Lydia greeted bluntly.

Robert Plant started and stared at her, confused. "Hi," he replied.

"You're not from here?" She stated it as a question, but it wasn't actually one.

"No," he admitted, still off-put.

Allison smiled. If Lydia was good at anything, it was at confusing people into bafflement. Her blunt intelligence was enough to shock anyone, but if she wanted to cause confusion, there was nothing to stop her. Lydia kneaded her temples before smiling stunningly and continuing.

"Lydia Martin." She offered her hand.

"Rob Plant."

"Do you need help finding anything?"

Agent Plant shook his head with a small smile. "I'm only in town for a little bit. Just looking for a motel." He awkwardly shifted his attention back to the book in his hands.

"M'kay. Welcome to Beacon Hills," Lydia smiled sweetly and spun on her heels. By the time she had returned to the group, she was using both palms to message her temples. She waved away Stiles's concern. "Nothing '_weird_.' He seems completely normal, if not a common criminal." She glanced back around the brick building. "If not really handsome," she added.

~•~

"Yeah," Dean snapped impatiently. He had been up for the past three nights and had chased through four towns in the past six hours, which was impressive and horrifying given the distance between the cities in Nevada.

"Hello? Mr. Tanner?" The voice was timid and tired, like he was scared of angry patrons yelling over the phone all day. "This is Gregory from AT&T. We've received a response from Samuel Tanner's GPS, would you still like the address?"

Dean dropped the bag of chips he had been eating and immediately turned the ignition. Balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear all the while speeding down the Silver Spring's main street, he shouted back, "Yes."

"It first came on in Redding, California, traveling steadily down route five, but now the signal has stopped in Sacremento. The phone hasn't moved for around an hour."

Dean snapped his phone shut without so much as a thank you. An hour, Sam had been in Sacremento, California, for an hour, and the phone company has only just called him? He may be in Nevada, but with the impala full on gas and Dean's driving skills, he figured he could be there within an hour and a half.

And true to his thought, Dean arrived in the center of the city, receiving the exact location from the same irked and fiddly man from a few hours before. However, when he reached the park, he did not see his overly tall brother. Instead the only man in view was a plump guy sitting on a bench. Even if Sam had been hunching over, this guy was the complete opposite and could never pass for his baby brother. The imposter was balding, a Homer Simpson styled haircut, and he was stuffing his face with a McDonald's big mac.

Dean wasn't feeling the same sense of humor as he normally would at the confusion, and he stalked over to the man and caught him by the collared shirt while the other hand snaked around the flip phone.

"Where'd you get this," Dean demanded.

The guy sputtered, grease coating his lips. "I don't know what you're talking about, but you want it, you can have it!"

Dean shook his head angrily. "I don't want it!" he snarled. "I just want to know where you got it?"

"It—it's mine. Look, buddy, I don't want any troub—"

"Then tell me the truth!" Dean raised a fist as if to hit the guy, and the trick seemed to work. Dean wasn't sure if he would actually have hit the man, but since the guy flinched uncontrollably and sank to the park pavement, it didn't really matter.

"I—I found it!" he cried. "I was on the subway and found the pre-paid phone. All I needed was a SIM card. I didn't know—oomph!" The man hit the ground hard enough to break the skin on his palms. He looked cowardly at Dean then took the gesture as a 'free-to-go' statement, and he scurried away.

Dean held the phone in his hand and stared down at it. "Well played, Sammy."

* * *

><p><strong>So I actually had nearly finished this a few days ago, but my computer deleted over 1,000 words.<strong>

**Anyways, hope you guys like it and as always COMMENT!**

**P.S. comments help speed along chapters**


	3. Chapter 3

Sam knew those two kids from the Kyle house were following him. They weren't exactly good at hiding their presence, especially if that presence was an old pale blue jeep that always stayed two cars behind Sam. They continued to follow him, too, conspicuously and annoyingly. He understood their curiosity at finding an FBI agent at a local murder scene, but what confused Sam was the young woman who came up to him in the middle of his search for a hotel. She seemed _too_ random and curious for Sam's liking, and after he had decided on a rundown motel, Sam made sure to cover his tracks from any teenage tail.

The motel he had chosen was just on the outskirts of Beacon Hills. It was unimportant and out of the way, but to someone who knew all the tricks to staying hidden, it was also very obvious. But Sam set up some demon wards and basic salt lines, and he went to work reading up on past press releases and histories without much worry to being found. The only person who knew where he was had promised not to disclose the name of the small town.

One article he had uncovered was disturbingly familiar to Sam: a house fire that killed an entire family except three. The only difference was that the Hale family had been a victim of a psychopathic woman who hired arsonists to ravage the family mansion. Kate Argent. The name sounded familiar, but Sam didn't know from where. From what he knew, he hadn't been in Beacon Hills before, and he was sure he hadn't seen the woman before as he scrutinized her smiling photo for clues as to where he might have known her from.

Most of the attacks Sam read about depicted a wild animal, a cougar that had wandered down from the reservations but to a hunter, the deaths sounded more like werewolves. Sure their hearts hadn't been eaten out, but the scenes had been _torn apart _bywhatever it was that attacked, not to mention the wolf hairs that were found on almost all of the bodies. That alone pointed to an alpha's strength but not as to why he was randomly killing people.

And a werewolf didn't explain the murderous teenager Matt Daehler who had somehow sliced up most of the deputies in the Sheriff's Station with allegedly only a gun. Sam had originally theorized the alpha was alone and trying to make a pack but the wild, animistic instincts were killing the potentials before they could turn, but now the slicing and dicing of the police and the reported paralyzing toxin trashed that idea. Because there couldn't be more than one supernatural pack in one small town, an even if there were, the recent incidents pointed to an occult, a witch or druid.

Out of the many articles, three names repeated more than not, along with a group of students that were never named due to being minors. The local Sheriff Stilinski, a federally acclaimed arms dealer Chris Argent, and a nurse Melissa McCall were the only sacrifices that were rescued from the lunatic Jennifer Blake. Another person that was connected to the school, where more than half the incidents occurred.

Sam grinned somewhat sardonically. _Everything, all of the incidents and deaths, revolve around the school. The school and the sheriff's station_. Taking only a moment to put on his monkey suit, he decided his best bet to finding out anything, especially about the current case and all of the past ones—which he wanted to clarify out of curiosity. Sam was halfway down East street when every car on the road parted like the Red Sea. Two blue squad cars flew down the center of the two lanes, their lights and sirens blaring hell.

Sam didn't need a headache and vision to know something was wrong, he just hoped it was the right kind of wrong, one not involving a murderous ghost. The drive was much longer than Sam had anticipated and led to a small house on the other side of town, a couple feet from the edge of the woods. Many police cars and the sheriff's SUV were parked all over the lawn, as well as, Sam noted, a familiar looking jeep. Some officers were in the process of tying up the yellow police line while a group of paramedics wheeled out a gurney, but instead of a dying patient, there was a black bag. Immediately behind the coroners, a woman was being led forcefully to a squad car, and she was beyond hysterics. Black makeup shadowed her eyes in rivets and sobs racked her body so harshly she couldn't stand or walk straight, leaning most of her weight on the two officers in charge of delivering her to the station. The scene might have been sympathetic, but the amount of red that stained her clothes and skin was anything but.

The uniforms had to push more and more as they neared their car, and the assailant began to lament louder and louder, claiming she hadn't meant to and it wasn't her.

"Something was controlling me!" She screamed until she was muffled by the car door and the whoop of the sirens.

Sitting on the step into the ambulance was a girl wrapped in a grey shock-blanket, glaring at the men standing before her with pads of paper. Sam couldn't hear what was being said, but Sam assumed she was the one to have walked in and find the woman covered in blood and the most likely mutilated body. A few feet away from the debriefing, one boy was being manhandled away from the scene, towards a group of four other teenagers. Sam couldn't help but smile and sigh at the same time. He should have guessed the girl was with the two boys he had met earlier. He could only assume the other girl, a tall brunette, and a third boy with curly dirty blonde hair were part of the meddlesome club.

The officer, who was handling the lanky teenager out of the house and off the lawn, held an air of authority as well as a badge identifying him as the sheriff. He was in the middle of his admonishing tirade of prying into a crime scene when Sam walked up to him. Sam nodded a greeting to the group of adolescents before offering his I.D. to the officer.

The sheriff took one look at Sam's suit and sighed, before taking the badge to confirm his suspicions. "Let, me guess. FBI?"

Sam nodded solemnly, and offered his badge. "Yes, sir. I was just passing through the neighborhood when I saw the commotion. You mind if I speak with you?" Sam tried to avoid the suspicious, incredulous glances he was receiving from the group to his right and focused on the Sheriff's slight incline of the head. The two wandered away from the kids, not before the sheriff scoldingly ordered "stay!"

"What happened here?"

"A homicide."

"You have a suspect in custody?"

The sheriff nodded. He held out an arm to Sam, stopping their passage to the new crime scene. "Can I ask what a special agent is doing investigating a small town murder?"

Sam bit his lip and smiled charmingly and tactfully, and snake-like. "Beacon Hills has a higher mortality rate than the northern Californian towns put together. The bureau just wants to make sure there isn't anything brewing that we need to be concerned with. You understand, don't you sheriff, given the recent circumstance with Jennifer Blake? She was in the position to teach anything to the students before she was ousted."

Every deputy in the vicinity scowled and openly shared their disgust with the fed, although the Sheriff appeared to be trying to seem more diplomatic. Sam felt somewhat bad about the intrusion and blatant disrespect, but if was going to save these people from a malevolent spirit, he was going to have to ignore such feelings.

"Yes," the sheriff ground out before putting on a moderately pleasant smile, which was more of a grimace, "there have been unfortunate happenstances, but I can assure you there is no reason for the FBI to get involved."

Sam exhaled slowly. He knew local law enforcement hated when the feds got involved, but something felt stronger than the normal type of resistance. "And they won't," Sam promised diplomatically. "I just need to confirm this isn't another Jennifer Blake."

Finally, the sheriff nodded less reluctantly. "At Eleven Seventeen this morning, we received a call from Lydia Martin," at this point, he indicated the strawberry blonde who was now standing amongst her friends, "called Nine-One-One about discovering Maddison Mason with her hands inside Noah Mason's chest. Dispatch arrived and arrested Mrs. Mason before other officers set up a perimeter. So far that's all we have."

"And there's no connection between the Masons and the last murder five days ago?"

"The Kyles?" he asked in surprise. "No, they live across town, and there's no connection I can see." The sheriff narrowed his eyes and questioned distrustfully, "why do you ask?"

Sam shrugged. "Two violent murders within five days. That's not suspicious to you?"

"Maybe it's cabin fever," a voice piped up at Sam's shoulder. Sam jumped and found the teen from earlier smiling proudly, a few steps behind him was the ever present group of adolescents.

"Stiles," the sheriff sighed, although he seemed to have surrendered. "I told you to wait on the other side of the tape."

"I know. We're just curious why the FBI's here."

Sam couldn't believe how suspicious this entire town was. It seemed like every person here believed in every government conspiracy, or that the feds were trying to run a police state by how they were acting. "Does that explain why you were going to break into the last crime scene?" Sam wasn't positive that was the truth, but taking a stab that they didn't live on that street proved fruitful. The sheriff's expression was blatantly stormy as he turned on the kids. However, the confrontation was considerably different than what Sam was expecting.

"Really?" was the sheriff's exasperated response.

Stiles grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his head.

"Go home, Stiles. Scott, Isaac, don't you have lacrosse practice or something?" All three boys' eyes shifted to the ground and all three stepped back from the law enforcement officers. "Lydia, you're free to go. Allison…" the sheriff seemed out of suggestions and just waved them all away with tired flicks of his hand. After all five had piled into the pale blue jeep, Sam faced the sheriff.

"Does that kind of thing happen often?"

"Too often," came the lethargic response.

~•~

"I thought you told your dad about that guy," demanded Allison. She dropped her bag by the sofa, intending to drop down herself, but she shifted at the last moment to sit in a recliner chair instead of sharing the couch with Scott.

Stiles scowled and took Allison's abandoned spot and kicked his feet up onto the McCall's coffee table. "I meant to. It just…never came up."

Lydia raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "It never came up?"

"…No?" Stiles shifted uncomfortably. "Okay, maybe I held off because we know nothing about this guy except that he likes Led Zeppelin and is really good at forging federal documents."

Scott glanced around his small pack, which he had only started calling them that because Stiles had said it enough it had caught on. Most of them were simply mildly frustrated another supernatural occurrence was screwing up their otherwise normal high school lives. There was a simple answer to this, and he knew more than three quarters of them would object to it. And still, he offered it up as a suggestion. "I think we should tell Derek."

Predictably, all of the responses were outraged 'What's and 'No's. Stiles's was the loudest as every time he and Derek were in a relatively stressful situation the former always seemed to get hurt. Stiles, although he reluctantly admitted that Derek had knowledge in the area, was still loath to bring the ex-alpha in on their ghost problem.

"He may know something about this sort of thing," Scott defended, "maybe even about the FBI guy."

"Or we may be bringing him for no reason. Remember he and Peter weren't exactly happy about your arrangement with Deucalion. Not that any of us were, but still."

Scott threw a silencing glare at Stiles, who took the look head on unflinchingly.

"I agree with Stiles," Isaac added quietly. Scott wondered if he still hadn't forgiven Derek for throwing him out even if it was to protect him.

"Can we talk about what the imposter was doing at _both_ crime scenes?" Lydia prompted. For someone who had discovered a woman murdering her husband an hour earlier, she was doing fairly well. She was still paler than usual, but she wasn't shaking or throwing up in shock. "And how he also thinks the murders are connected?"

"That's weird," Allison agreed. "I could understand why he thought two murders within five days was suspicious but not in the way he was implying. Maybe he knows it's something to do with a ghost? Another hunter?"

"What's the probability of that, though?" Stiles shook his head then thought better of it. "Actually with our luck, he's probably the king of hell and is coming to kill the ghost for being obvious."

"How does that work if the ghost is already dead," began Isaac, but Scott intervened before the debate escalated:

"I think," he began loudly then returned to his normal pitch, "there's reason to check him out. Lydia, you know where he's staying?"

She glared at the alpha. She looked like she wanted to say something snappy and obnoxious but she refrained and settled on a simple 'no.'

"Fine. We'll have to find out by scent. Isaac, you up for it?"

~•~

Normal teenage drama was how Scott and Stiles found themselves, once again, on their own together. Since Allison was still reluctant to be alone with Scott for any period of time and Lydia still practically ignored Stiles, the groups were decided on what would be the least awkward moments of their lives. Isaac went off with Lydia and Allison to check out all the hotels on one side of town while Scott and Stiles drove around looking for a motel that a federal imposter would stay at. To say the least, they were unsuccessful until they had searched every hotel until falling upon the place that charged by the hour.

"He wouldn't…" Stiles stared, horrified, at the fat, greasy man who grinned at the two boys. "You'd think a conman could afford better places to stay."

The toothless man sucked at his gums in a disgustingly noisy way and scrutinized the two teenagers up and down before deciding they weren't his time and attention and focusing back on his magazine on the counter.

Scott held his breath momentarily for a reprieve from the smell of miscellaneous bodily fluids and approached the front desk. "We were wondering if someone has checked in recently." He didn't receive any sort of recognition that he was speaking but continued nonetheless. "He's huge. Height-wise, I mean. Hair falling in his face, brunette. May be carrying around a feder—"

Stiles lightly shoved his friend to the side with a warning glance. He tapped the desk incessantly until he got an annoyed glare from the manager. Stiles smirked and slapped a five dollar bill on the counter. "We're looking for a buddy. May be staying here?"

The manager didn't show any indication he understood English.

Stiles's eye twitched and he groaned, slapping down a twenty, and the first movement of life appeared on the guy's face.

"Yeah, he checked in." His breath reeked of rancid tobacco and beer.

"Which room?"

The manager's fat palm landed softly on top of Stile's hand and slimily slid down until it dislodged the bills, which he pocketed before grinning. "Don't remember."

Stiles stared openmouthed. He grabbed Scott and turned him around to talk quietly. "Dude, give me a twenty."

"What?" Scott exclaimed loudly.

"Come on! You've got a job and a motorbike. I've got a crappy jeep that needs a lot of TLC." Stiles slapped Scott upside the back and reached for his friend's wallet. "I already gave that sleaze-ball twenty-five, and we don't know when the fed's goanna be back."

Scott actually growled as he dug out a wad of cash from his jacket pocket. "This better be worth it," he grumbled. Stiles grinned and dropped all of the money he had collected before the drooling manager.

"And I want a key."

~•~

Unfortunately, there were no pictures of victims, no bloody occult symbols, and no werewolf teeth on string. It was just a simple one bed motel room with a medium bag full of stale clothes, like the guy hadn't had time to go to the local dry cleaners.

In fact, the only really weird thing was the line of white powder drawn in front of every window and the door. Stiles took care to step over the line to riffle through the drawers, but Scott busied himself with the substance lining the windows. He dragged a finger through the line and rubbed it between his hands, sniffing it. "Salt," he muttered confusedly.

"Don't touch anything," Stiles ordered as an afterthought and without turning around. Scott glanced down at the salt painting his hands and brushed them off slightly, moving on to stand behind his friend. Stiles had been digging inside the duffel bag when he had found something. There were two photos: one old, worn photo of a family and a newer photo of a guy and a girl. In the first photo were two young kids, a toddler and a baby, in the arms of an overjoyed couple. They were sitting on a classic old car, and they were happy. In the second photo there was their imposter with his arms around a bubbly young woman with long blonde hair.

"Who do you think they are?"

Stiles shrugged. "People with murder fetishes?"

"I'm serious. You're always the one talking about people showing up with hidden agendas."

Stiles shifted through the bed sheets for anymore hidden cachets, but there was nothing to be found. "Yeah," he admitted, "but I'm not a mind reader." He was on all fours then, crawling across the carpet floor with his head skimming the little fur.

Scott held back his instinct to retch at the thought of what had touched that floor. "Stiles," he groaned, yanking his best friend off the floor. "There's nothing here."

"But we still haven't found out anything about the guy." He waved a hand at the wall of salt. "Besides the fact he likes his sodium, but I doubt threatening him with pepper will do anything."

"Stiles, we should go…" Scott froze.

"We could offer him popcorn…you know I think I've read a myth about a leprechaun needing to count every grain of salt—"

"Stiles. We need to go." Scott listened more closely, but his friend was rambling on persistently.

"—if someone spills it before them—"

"Like, now!" Scott seized his friend's arm and fumbled to the door despite Stiles's protests. Scott hadn't realized how much time had passed since they had bribed the manager until he had heard the rumbling of an old, ford pickup truck pulling into the parking lot. Luckily, Stiles had had the forethought to park around the corner so if _Agent Plant_ did come back before they were gone, he wouldn't see the ever-obvious jeep.

Unfortunately, all of the rooms were supplied with one door, all facing into the parking lot. They glanced out, and, not seeing the imposter immediately, threw themselves out of the motel room and off the motel property without looking back.

~•~

Sam was aware someone had been in his room before he knew how. He knew it hadn't been the maid because he had left the 'Do Not Disturb' sign hanging from the doorknob, and the manager had seemed too lazy to really go nosing through his guests' rooms. But he had an idea of who it might have been.

Sam looked over the room, finding little things out of place and his salt line with drags in it when there hadn't been any before. Sam sighed. He was really starting to get annoyed with the teenagers and locals of this town. And to add to his annoyance, Dean had called him so many times the sheriff had glanced at him with expectancy and had asked if he was going to answer it.

The murder had been almost exactly like the first one, down to the wife ripping out her husband's heart, but she had spared her husband the pain of carving into his skin before de-coring him. Sam didn't understand how this had happened. At first he had thought the ghost was attached to the house, but there had been no other person who had lived in the Kyles' house before and certainly not a gruesome murder. The Masons hadn't known Christine or Robert, and yet Maddison had killed her "cheating" husband in the same manner as Christine, both claiming to have had no control over their actions.

Sam lay down on his bed and rested the clock on top of his stomach. As far as Sam could make out, the only thing he could do was to go back to the Mason house before the ghost is able to move, however it was managing to do that. And he could only do that once the sun went down and the police moved on. Sunset was scheduled to be around six o'clock, and so Sam had a few hours to kill. He set back the clock on the dresser and shut his eyes.

~•~

It was close to the second hour of waiting for absolute silence when Sam finally trusted the quiet enough for him to leave the safety of his car. Being close to eleven, the police had no reason to really watch over the house and finally left, after crossing back a few times to make sure no juvenile delinquents were trying to sneak a peek at the bloody crime scene.

Sam, still taking precautions, unlocked the side door and stepped in, the EMF indicator already replacing the lock picks. He had a faultless plan, with the only hitch being discovering the remains he had to burn. But at the moment, he just needed to see what the ghost looked like, if it was a ghost, and if it was attached to a certain item instead of her physical vestiges. That was the only explanation Sam could think of that would allow a spirit to shift between locations.

He flitted through possible non-ghost related ghouls as he scanned each item in the Masons' house, but there was nothing in the family room or kitchen. Sam moved on to the living room, completing the circle on the ground level. The layout of the house was somewhat similar to the Kyles', probably due to the same architect, but it made searching the house easier. The door Sam had broken into connected with the pantry that led to the kitchen which then led to a family room and the bedroom at the far end of the hall. All three rooms circled around the stairs that held another bedroom, an office, and a bathroom. Sam had made a loop through each room, ending in the master bedroom.

The bed was slightly ruffled and clothes lay strewn in the closet. It seemed like the owners had just gone out for the night and had not been arrested for murdering the other. The EMF buzzed faintly as soon as it passed over the threshold. Given new hope in his theory of an accursed item, Sam set about the room, quickly roving over any paraphernalia that was in sight, but before he could scour the room entirely, a horrendously loud crash brought him to a halt.

Sam immediately drew his side arm and silently cursed himself for not bringing a sawed-off shotgun with him instead. But the specially-made iron bullets would have to do, decided Sam as he skillfully crept along the wall in the direction of the sound, keeping the hand-held at eye level. His heart beat rapidly despite him having done this hundreds of times before, and his untamed thoughts connected that to him being alone. Without Dean. He was past the living room by then, nearing the turn into the kitchen when a dark shadow stepped before him, a brilliantly white light swinging rapidly.

The shape yelped momentarily, Sam responding in kind as his gaze was bridged with a blinding flashlight. The sheriff's son, as Sam had learned from his earlier inquiries, threw himself away from the sudden obstruction and collided with two equally large shadows. They squawked as well and drew up their own flashlights. Sam brought back his gun but dropped it as a flash of blinding light enlightened Sam to the situation in front of him.

"What are you doing here?"

Stiles had recovered from his shock and jabbed a finger in Sam's direction. "I hope you mean 'what are _you_ doing here?' You're breaking and entering as much as us."

Sam holstered his gun and attempted to usher the three boys and a girl—Allison, he dimly remembered—back out the way they'd come. "You shouldn't be here," Sam began, but Scott stooped and held his ground stubbornly. He was strong, and as Sam wasn't going to physically fight him just to get the kid out of the house, Sam surrendered the attempt and settled for glaring at the teens.

"And you should be?" countered Allison. "We know you're not really FBI."

Clenching his jaw and dropping his head, Sam tried to think of something in response. He needed to get those teens out of the house before they got hurt. He didn't know what the pattern of the ghost was yet, and assuming it only possessed women and killed their spouses was likely to get someone killed if he was wrong. Looking down, it was then that Sam noticed how Allison kept her right arm behind her back and how a small, taught string protruded from behind her knees.

"Are you carrying a—crossbow?" Sam asked, genuinely curious.

Scott stepped in front of Allison protectively, an act she didn't find so endearing, but it was quickly copied by the other boy, Isaac. "Answer the question," Scott growled. "Why are you pretending to be FBI?"

Sam's pocket whirred dangerously, and it wasn't his phone. Something was woken up by the sudden upheaval in the house, and Sam doubted it was Casper. He picked up his previous attempts at shepherding the teenagers outside with a new fervor. "Fine!Yes," he admitted urgently. "But seriously, it's dangerous—"

"Dangerous for you maybe," Stiles prodded.

"If you don't get out of here, someone _is_ going to die—"

Suddenly all source of light shattered. The house was thrown in to blackness, except for an enigma's glow that emulated moonlight. The specter appeared at the end of the hall, flowing from the bedroom like she was floating in a stream, and she was terrifically beautiful. At that moment, Sam knew they had to run. The phantom's pearly white face had been emotionless, frozen, but after registering people intruding on her territory, atrocious features warped her face into something animalistic. Black veins encircled her sunken, marble eyes, cracked black lips that overflowed with oozing russet blood, curled fingers stretched with talon-like fingernails.

Sam did the thing that had been indoctrinated in him since age five: he drew, aimed, and fired. The bullet ripped through the air, hitting the ghost dead between her eyes, and she exploded into a shower of ash. Sam spun, dragging the four teens with him as he tore down the rest of the hall, to the kitchen. Even with his back turned, he could feel the apparition reforming, sending knives through the air every second.

"Out! Go, go, go!"

The house shook, the window panes shattered, and the doors nailed themselves shut; but as Scott was the first to arrive at the back door of the kitchen, he snatched hold of the handle and yanked the entire piece of timber from the frame.

~•~

The trees flashed past as they ran. It didn't even matter that they had outrun the danger by a mile, or that the only means of transport was in the other direction. All that mattered was Sam had seen the ghost and could probably figure out who it was and where her remains were. He also had an idea of how the ghost was moving locations, although not how the item itself had moved.

Suddenly, Sam was aware that he alone was still running. The only light he had was coming from the weak crescent moon, and the verdures and tree boughs absorbed almost all the pale, golden glare. He stopped, squinting behind him to get used to the forest without light. The Beacon Hills residents were still with him, only they had stopped short in an empty copse and each of them were standing defensively. Allison held her crossbow level to her shoulder, the silver head aimed straight for Sam's chest. Stiles was openly leering and distrustful and only Scott and Isaac seemed more hesitant to show their aggression.

Usually being the one to be holding the projectile weapon, Sam found it, to say the least, uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of the crossbow, and he wasn't completely sure the girl knew how to handle it, despite the clear confidence on her face.

"Who are you really?" she demanded. "And don't give us some BS story about being an FBI agent. We've already established you aren't," she injected before Sam could even think to fabricate a story.

Sam chose to remain silent.

"Fine," Stiles called, still a good, safe distance away. "Let's start with something simple. How about your name? Your _real_ name."

"Sam," Sam returned fleetly, grinning slightly when Stiles and Scott started back in surprise. He might as well try to get them to trust him. "You're Stiles, and you're Scott, and Isaac?" he asked, indicating each boy respectively. They nodded. Sam came back to Allison, who adjusted her grip on her bow under the scrutiny. "And you're Allison."

"What are you doing in Beacon Hills?"

Sam put out his hands, creeping towards the four teens, assuaging their nerves with calm advances. They, however, weren't to be placated. They were slow and cautious, not that Sam could blame them. Although they didn't seem that frightened, more like peculiarly annoyed that he'd imposed on their turf.

"I'm trying to figure out how to stop the murders." Sam was almost an amicable distance away from the four, and he was confident they didn't feel like he was going to attack. "And I think you know that I don't have anything to do with them. Or you'd have called the police already."

Stiles shrugged and edged closer, but Scott stayed back, only moving forward when his friend got too close. Sam thought he imagined it, but it looked like the kid was trying to sniff the air, getting a read on Sam.

"Or," Allison stepped before Sam, pushing him back a pace with a wave of her crossbow, "we wanted to see what you were doing before we called the authorities." She continued closer, taking back whatever progress Sam had made in the past minute. She grinned smugly and surprised Sam by dropping the arm holding the weapon. "Or because you're a hunter."

Sam hesitated only a second, mostly out of shock, before he nodded, although he understood it wasn't really a question. There was no point in denying it, and he was fairly sure normal teenagers didn't break into a haunted house with a crossbow and _not_ freak out after being attacked by a real ghost. Sam looked her right in the eyes, "And you are too? All of you?" Sam shook his head unbelievingly, "Ellen had said there weren't any other hunters here; that's why I took the job. If I'd known…"_ He'd have done what? And why did he want to avoid the other hunters, it's not like they knew what he was going to become when Sam didn't even know. _

"How'd you know to shoot the ghost?" Stile's query broke through his contemplation. "Shouldn't the bullet—I don't know—go _through_ it?"

Sam unthinkingly waved away the question with a simple utterance of iron. He had suddenly grown tired. The entire night had been a waste of time, and it had only caused more trouble than it had cured. Sure he knew what the ghost looked like, but now he had to deal with the endless questions from the teenagers.

"What about _you_," Sam interrupted any thought Stiles or Scott or Isaac was about to put to words. "What the hell were you doing breaking into a crime scene. Shouldn't more experienced hunters be dealing with this?"

"Maybe," Isaac took the liberty of ignoring and distracting from Sam's question. "You're not here for anything _but_ the ghost, are you?"

Sam's attention had flickered back to the woods, having thought he heard something. His eyes scoured the shadows for anything that had made the noise, but Sam found nothing. Returning to the conversation, he said, "You mean 'Am I here looking for the reason behind the animal attacks and sacrifices?'"

All four nodded.

Sam waited before answering. But his hesitance led to his notice of their surprise. Scott, who had been so focused on Sam's face and movement, was now alert to something behind him. A man formed from the shadows, but as the moonlight caught more of his features, black hair and cobalt eyes were soon the only human aspect. His nose was sharper, his teeth sharpening into canines, and he prowled closer, like an animal.

Sam's breath hitched. He recognized the evidence behind the characteristics, and he had already begun to reach for his gun when one of the teens behind him called out a name in a warning, and the werewolf was charging.

~•~

Dean was at his wit's end when his phone rang. He was half-tempted to let it ring. There was no reason to think it was Sam, no reason to think his baby brother had decided he overreacted and needed help. He was half-tempted but there was always a chance.

"Hello?" he answered gruffly.

"It's Ellen."

"Ellen," Dean breathed. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved or worried. Things hadn't been very friendly last time he'd been at the Roadhouse, but if she was calling then maybe, "Hey, have you heard from Sam?"

There was a reluctant pause as she seemed to be thinking over what to save, but she tentatively replied, "I have…but he made me promise not to tell you where he is."

At that point, Dean could have growled. _Of course Sam would stoop so low as to make her promise, but Ellen knows what it's like to need to watch out for someone who could necessarily take care of himself._ He tried not to sound like he was begging, but there was no denying how desperate he was. "Come on, Ellen, please. Something bad could be going on here, and I swore I'd look after that kid."

"Now Dean, they say you can't protect your loved ones forever."

Dean had definitely lost hope at those words. He had grabbed his keys during the conversation, throwing whatever possession he had into a duffel bag within seconds. Now he stood, heaving, in the center of the room of the cheap motel he had forced himself to rest at for the night.

"Well, I say screw that," Ellen returned strongly. "What else is family for? He's in Beacons Hills, California."

Now he was out of the door, his duffel bag in one hand, his phone and keys in the other.

"Thanks."

* * *

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**ESAELP TNEMMOC!**

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	4. Chapter 4

**11:57 p.m.**

Sam crouched over his arm delicately, careful to keep a cushion of air concealing the thick plaster. _Stupid arm. Stupid zombie chick. Stupid kid who knocked him into a stupid rock._ The glare that was thrown towards Scott was unfairly placed, but at that moment, it was Sam's only defense. His gun lay forgotten somewhere in the dark, and the sting resonating up his arm from the broken bone in wrist was almost enough to bring tears to Sam's eyes.

When that creature had charged Sam, the Winchester had been prepared, granted with a gun loaded with the wrong kind of bullets, but he hadn't been afraid. Sam hadn't felt anything. Maybe that was the start of it all, what his father had been so worried about. What may cause Dean to kill his only living family. Sam's face felt a creeping numbness every time he thought of what Dean had said. _He said I might have to kill you, Sammy_. Every time his mind replayed those thoughts, it felt like his face was turning to stone, and the look of betrayal and hatred was chiseled permanently into his expressions.

But the werewolf had never reached Sam. The kid, Scott, had intervened before anything could happen and pushed Sam out of the way. Unfortunately, he was a lot stronger than he looked, and more so than he was aware of, and had thrown Sam farther than either had anticipated. Sam crashed down, instinctually bracing himself with arms outstretched behind him, cushioned his fall with the pearly white cast holding the hunter's arm in one piece, which was why Sam was now looking on wearily while nursing his throbbing hand.

Scott was contesting with the human animal by growling viciously, the act seeming a little too _natural_ for a simple high school student and unbelievable for him to be holding his own against a full grown werewolf.

"You're all werewolves, aren't you?" Sam groaned breathlessly. He was definitely screwed, Sam concluded, after he sent a quick glance into the shadows for any clue as to where his pistol had flown off to.

The werewolf tried to circumvent Scott with a growl, but Scott returned in kind and strong-armed the attempt. Something about his stature changed, an aspect of how he stood shifted from a self-conscious teenager to an authoritative alpha.

"Derek," he growled. "Stop!"

"He's a _hunter_, Scott," 'Derek' stated as if that was all he needed to pass judgment.

Scott inclined his head dangerously, and Derek cowed reluctantly, his features shifting back to a more human presence. His eyes, however, remained an icy, electric blue. Scott, seemingly satisfied Derek wouldn't attempt another coup de grace, faced Sam, who was at the same time surprised and not by the flaming crimson of the teenager's irises. It was a show of affirmation but also a warning to Sam. Any eighteen year old who could calm a charging adult should not be taken lightly. Isaac stepped around the hunter and joined his friend. His own eyes were a brilliant tawny, and Sam, for the first time, experienced a moment of panic.

He knew the fear he felt over yellow eyes was pathetically stupid because he was even aware of the meaning behind the varying color of the eyes, but since he had fought the Yellow-Eyed Demon, the color held more meaning than a simple gradation of pigment. The first time he had learned about the orientation of pack leadership, he had been eighteen, and he and John had had an argument for the fifth time that trip. In fact, it had been a few weeks before Sam had slammed the door and hadn't looked back.

It had been cold, even for a night in February in Western Massachusetts. Sam, Dean, and John had driven to Lenox, a small town in the Berkshires because there had been reports of animal attacks that hadn't fit into the zoography of Western Mass.

_John slammed the Impala door. His breaths were dispersing as clouds before him, and it only added to his appearance of being truly pissed off. Sam also firmly closed the car door and stood heaving in the frigid weather. The only one to close the door with any respect for the antiquity was Dean, and he could only look on with wary._

_Tonight was unique at the same time it wasn't. John and Sam were constantly at each other's throats, but it had passed a certain point when Sam had had the opportunity to shoot a pack member and had missed, winging the man before he disappeared. It had been tense enough Dean had offered to sit in the back, something he never did, so that Sammy might relax a bit. It hadn't gone as planned as Sam had inadvertently slammed the Impala door in his brother's face._

_"Sammy…" Dean began before his brother could act on his feelings, but Sam wasn't the problem._

_"What the hell were you thinking?" John interrogated severely._

_"What was I thinking about what?" Sam snapped back, although Dean knew he was just provoking a greater reaction._

_"Letting that—_thing_—go," John was posted before Sam now, his posture fixed, his feet melded to the ground, and he was unmoving despite the shiver-inducing cold._

_"I shot him," growled Sam. He clenched his fists hard, hard enough to slice his palms with his nails, dotting them with crescent moons. "But I missed."_

_"No. You let him go."_

_"Hey, why don't we go inside?" Dean grinned tightly, locating his body in between the two and trying to marshal his father and brother inside the squalid, vile hovel they had rented. But Sam threw off Dean's arm and faced his father straight on._

_"Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't see how killing some guy would solve our problems!"_

_"It wasn't some guy," John shouted tumultuously. "It was a werewolf! A monster!" He was just as uncontrollable, facing his disobedient son who was meant to be his unquestioning soldier._

_"No. It is some guy who transforms into a monster every full moon. He's still someone with a family. With a job and a house. I don't understand why—"_

_"Why…what?" The shift in volume and intensity was so instant and disconcerting, Sam choked on whatever thought he had been following. Dean's breath caught in his throat, the chill from the winter air dispersing throughout his chest._

_"Why your first reaction is to shoot and never ask questions."_

_A scowl impaired John's bearded face and he took one step closer to his son. "Because I don't need to. Anything less than human is a monster, and we send monsters to hell."_

_"Yeah," the youngest Winchester scowled. "And there are never exceptions." He held out his hands, palms outwards, and backed away from the car. "You know what, I need some air. Don't wait up."_

_He spun on his heels and began his defiant march into the frostbitten night._

_"Sam!"_

_He knew the voice was Dean, but Sam didn't care to look back. There was no crunching gravel to warn Sam he was being followed, and he could just catch the tail whispers of John's latest in his bigoted mandates._

_"Let him go, Dean."_

_Sam snorted, kicking a larger pebble off the beaten path. _Yeah, let me go_, he growled sardonically, _it's all just a rebellious phase_. His father never understood why Sam was so adamantly against following orders. His father had never seen the reports that went home in Sam's book-bag, never heard the comments and praises that were meant to be acknowledged at Parent-Teacher conferences, and never cared to notice that all of Sam's shares of the credit scams disappeared to the same cause, Common Application fees._

_The anger he felt towards his father's partial mind burned like shards of glass were coursing through his veins. Sam just wanted him to see how un-hunter-like his youngest actually was. Sure Sam was the best researcher of the three, and probably the smartest, but he didn't have the conviction his brother and father shared. He couldn't look at something and separate it from its human appearance. And he wasn't even entirely consumed by the urge, the yearning and longing, to find the demon who murdered his mother. That was Sam's real secret. He felt disgust and revulsion at the abomination, but he, his brother and father had decimated enough demons to account for the sin of one monster. Every time the thought surfaced in his mind, guilt sunk its tainted teeth into the Winchester's heart, tearing at the hole a mother's care was supposed to fill._

_Sam stopped mid-tirade when he faltered over his own, overly large feet. He had stalked halfway down the gravel road when suddenly it had altered to pavement, conjoining with a highway. Even as a state road, there were no signs of life in the night. The obscure motorway was only shadowed by the looming mountain to the right and the flooding sea of thin trees to the left. A flicker of movement drew Sam's attention, but after a moment of vivid focus, the shadow had simply been a trick of the wind._

_There was nothing. The street lights were a half a mile away from each post, and the sky was void of stars, the only reliable light coming from the brilliantly luminescent moon. The finger-like baton branches encroached on the visible light and reached outwards for Sam enough to put the young hunter on edge. When Sam glanced back the way he came, it seemed much darker and ominous than it had when he had first passed through._

_Slowly, the ire ebbed away, and Sam simply felt tired. No amount of arbitrating from Dean would fix the problems Sam had with his father. And Sam felt like he was swallowing frozen embers each time he read the ebony letters, but truth was, he had made his mind the second the ample, momentous packet had arrived…_

_Sam had just decided to walk back to the cabin when a dark shadow abruptly obstructed his path. It was of average size, covered with shaggy hair that looked black in the lightless woods, and every one of its aspects, besides the glowing, elongating fangs, were obscured by the shadows. It smiled briefly before howling and advancing toward the Winchester. Azure blue eyes traced every movement, including the attempts its prey made to retreat from its approach._

_Sam stumbled over the loose rocks that had made its way from the gravel path to the state road. Another shadow appeared besides the first one, followed by another and another until a mix of amber and cerulean eyes steamed in the cold air. They stepped out_ _from in between the trees and drew a circle of four points around the hunter, until there was only one space left, and it was directly in front of Sam._

_An old man, his arm bandaged in white, iridescent dressing, was the last of the seven to appear. His hair was almost a sickening yellow in the moonlight; his clothes were tattered from running through the woods night after night. An amused aura clouded him, and although Sam couldn't yet see his face, his posture reflected his smiling expression. He would have reason to smile, reflected Sam grimly, him having cornered the hunter who had lodged a piece of silver into his arm. The old man was easily recognizable, with the snow white hair and the pigeon-legged limp. But the hair and the limp was not what snagged Sam's attention. The varying irises were enthralling. Most members of the pack adorned cobalt eyes, a few had ochre, but the old man's—his eyes, when he flashed his white canines, were blood red._

_His voice was abrasive, like he had spent more than half his years with a cigarette between his lips. "Hunter," he crooned. "What would you be doing out here, all alone, after you and your pack have declared war on my territory?"_

_Sam choked back any response that would lead to his premature demise. Distantly, he smiled over the thought that Dean's juvenile manner had rubbed off on him despite Sam's attempts at surpassing his brother's wisdom._

_The man shifted his bandaged arm pointedly. "You're one lousy shot, kiddo." The surrounding pack loped in amusement, but there was something darker in their laughter. Something that was more loathing than the other emotions on the entertained veneer. The grandpa grinned a set of fangs and waved off the aggressive advances the wolves were making. "My boys are angry, see? They only listen to me, and you seemed to have damaged the vessel. Flesh wound granted, but silver bites."_

_Sam had been stepping back imperceptibly, but with a new realization, he stopped in his tracks. He ran through the different theories of werewolf leadership, the orientation of natural and demonic wolf leadership. There had been talk of different eye color meaning different statuses, and at that moment, Sam figured it was right. "You're the alpha."_

_"And the boy has brains," the werewolf congratulated. "I wonder what else he has."_

_"Why don't you try me, Cujo?" Sam growled._

_The men creating the circle hissed and snarled in warning, but their commander and chief called them off. "I like you. You've got a fight buried deep." Suddenly, his face grew darker and longer, an ashen tone strewn across his wooly features until he was no longer the human wolf. The eyes were the same, but they held a more animalistic gleam, a feral hunger that burned with sanguine light. Bones morphed under his skin and his ears pared until they resembled a jackal's. His teeth were fangs, and dark liquid flowed down them as they pierced the soft flesh of his mouth, and he was more wolf than man. At that moment, Sam understood how his father saw the supernatural, how he could separate the humans from the demons._

_"Too bad," the alpha mused, "the fight won't save you."_

_He leaned in towards Sam, slowly, menacingly and mockingly. Like he had whatever time to kill Sam, destroy him and tear at him because they believed no one was coming for him. But alert flickered across the old man's face. He arrested bemusedly, fangs inches from Sam's neck, staring over Sam's shoulder, and his red eyes blinked to that of a normal human in his confusion. Sam side-stepped, intending to search for whatever it was that had caught the alpha's attention, but a deafening crack brought every movement to a halt. The resonance that echoed from the shot was outdone by the cry that followed._

_He began to fall, blood beginning to seep from his heart and looking like a haunted lake in the light of a lunar eclipse, and the alpha was dead before he even hit the ground._

_Sam didn't need to see them to know who had pulled the trigger, and he acted accordingly. He lashed out against the nearest wolf, striking at the throat first then the face. Another shot rang out, and Dean was close enough to beat one of the pack members._

_After a moment, they fought back ferociously, but also with a lacking. A lack of leadership, Sam realized with a start. The old man had been an alpha, and although they wanted to avenge the death of their chief, they also didn't want to die for a tyrant who was already dead._

_Some did however; two of the pack members fell with steaming abysses filled with silver. The others were injured, nicked or maimed by bullets. They inflicted their own damage on_ _the Winchesters, but after Dean had interfered in their kill and their father was murdered, they began to run. Probably afraid of the last and deadliest of the Winchesters, inferred Sam. He had only sustained a small cut above his eye, and it was superficial and shouldn't leave a scar. He grinned sheepishly at his brother and rubbed the back of his shaggy head._

_"Some air, huh," Dean frowned. "What the hell were you thinking, Sammy?"_

_Sam tried to think of an excuse, but he settled for walking past his brother with a quiet utterance of, "it's Sam."_

_He didn't doubt that Dean would check to make sure the pack members and alpha were really dead, and he didn't really want to see the damage he and his brother had dealt to the young members. They couldn't have been older than twenty-four. Least their father would be proud—and upset—at the total destruction they wreaked on the pack, after scolding them for leaving the bodies lying out in the open._

_Dean jogged in the direction of the motel in order to catch up with his brother's long strides. Once he reached the same pace, he bumped shoulders with Sam to show he wasn't as upset as he let on, also checking to see if Sam was still pissed. "Just don't run off like that. Can't watch out for you if you run out on me."_

The replay of the hunt came unbidden and unwanted. Sam hadn't thought of the pack in Massachusetts in years, and even thinking of the pathetically petty fight between he and his father made his stomach churn like molten acid, but the words ending his own recollection were what truly broiled his insides. Sam didn't want to feel guilt over running out on Dean, but still the emotion came round to bite him in the ass.

Sam's finger twitched, his lips pulling into sneering frown. "You're an alpha," he breathed. He drove himself to stand up straight and looked on the pack of teenagers, all of whom were sharing wary miens. Scott positioned himself at the crown of his friends, and only Stiles seemed to be questioning the supervision. He inched closer to the Winchester with curiosity practically seeping out of every orifice and his gaping jaw.

"You do know how a wolf becomes an alpha, don't you?" Sam asked.

"Well, yeah," he stuttered, but then the first realization came from Scott, quickly replicating throughout the pack. First he was surprised, probably that Sam had made the connection between the eye color and the succession of power, and he paled at the implication of it. "But, I didn't kill anyone."

"Yeah? Then how'd you become an alpha?"

"It just kind of happened?" Scott answered pitifully, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sam nodded, sniggering in a disbelieving way. There was no way he believed that there was no killing, not that he wanted there to be. But according to his family philosophy, monsters were monsters, no matter the shape they appeared in. "Sorry if I find that a little hard to believe, but monsters aren't exactly trustworthy."

Stiles snorted shortly. "Yeah, because hunters are always so angelic."

That brought a slight smirk to Sam's face, nodding as he processed just how true it was. "So…" he had begun to pace marginally, just enough to slow his mind to a less feverish pace, "everyone in this town is a werewolf?"

Stiles shook his head, and Sam was beginning to wonder just how much this kid knew. He seemed to be more knowledgeable than the actual alpha, or at least he was the one who was more open to speaking to the outsider. "Just the vast majority are," the high schooler answered. "And you? You're a…hunter—that hunts ghosts?

"Among other things."

"What other things?"

"Basically anything that goes bump in the night."

"What's that supposed to mean?" The girl, Allison, finally spoke up. She had forgone her aggressive hold on her crossbow and was now curiously inching past the alpha's protective post. Scott sent her a warning glance, but she, almost too much so, insubordinately ignored him. "Until recently, we had only ever heard of werewolves. Then there are druids and kanimas, and now there are ghosts. Exactly what else is there?"

Sam hesitated. He'd given the truth is out there speech before, but most hadn't had any clue before they were serendipitously attacked by some supernatural, unbeknown force. He knew these kids probably could handle the truth of demons, of murder and sacrifice, and they had probably already handled worse. But he didn't want to break what little innocence he saw sheltering the teenagers. "You don't want to know."

~•~

**12:39 a.m.**

They industrial building was bleak, having one story and grey walls. The front door, the words Beacon Hills Animal Clinic plastered on the glass, was encased by wooden symbols that appeared to be pagan protective sigils. The sign read closed, but Scott had already begun to unlock the door with his own set of keys by the time Sam had even clambered out of the over-filled jeep. Stiles was the first to saunter in, pocketing his sundry assortment of rings, followed a few steps behind by Isaac and Scott. Allison kept her view trained on Sam, her eyes never wandering, her hand clenched on the kunai knife she believed was hidden. The last werewolf kept one step behind everyone, the last one over the threshold, and settled for glaring at the Winchester viciously.

"You work here?" Sam asked Scott, although he didn't really need, or actually receive, an answer.

The waiting room was clear of any signs of inhabitance besides from the occasional magazine scattered across a chair, and the only blink of light came from the examination room behind the counter. Stiles and Scott immediately made their way to the back, like it was nothing more than habit. Scott hadn't wanted to bring everyone back to his house. For one reason, even though his mother wouldn't be back for another few hours, he didn't want her to walk in while they were planning on taking care of a ghost who was going on a rampage—a thought that amused Sam: here was an omnipotent sovereign, an alpha, worried his mother would interrupt his playdate. The second reason, and no one spoke it aloud however obvious it was, was they didn't trust Sam.

Sam hovered awkwardly to the side of the examination room, not really wanting to relax but all the same wanting answers from the locals. After the initial disclosure in the woods, outside the property circle of the Masons, Sam had offered to take them back to his motel to get over the awkward introductions. The others had declined suspiciously and instead put forth a more mutually acceptable location.

Stiles dumped himself down on the cold, steel operation table, and studied Sam up and down. Isaac reclined against the far wall, his arms crossed across his chest, and Allison paused momentarily beside him before moving away from everyone else in the room, her gaze fleetingly finding Scott's.

"What about the owner?" Sam asked, attempting to break the silence.

"He won't be too surprised," Isaac averred knowingly. "What? I doubt anything really surprises him," he added when everyone, including Sam, questioningly turned to him.

"So he knows all about—" Sam waved a vague hand in a wide circle, "—this?"

"Who knows what he actually knows."

"Except _everything_," Stiles grumped. He turned to Isaac, continuing the diversion with Isaac. "Did you know he speaks sign language?"

"I don't think people don't actually _speak_ sign language—"

A deep throated growl cut off the rest of Isaac's amused retort. Derek appeared like a shadow next to the two boys and threateningly silenced them with a glare. His cold eyes found Sam and never left as he said, "What's your real name?"

"I told you, it's Sam—"

"Full name."

"Winchester." Sam waited for the recognition, but it never came. _What kind of hunters had never heard of the Winchester family?_ It was not something he usually liked to advertise, but he'd grown accustomed to the selectively aware to have at least heard the rumors of the boys. "You've never heard of me?"

"Should we have?"

Sam shook his head, the first rush of coolness slowing the beating his heart since Sam had first snuck out of that motel in Washington. He wasn't sure why he was relieved they didn't know who he was—or what he was, he added sardonically—but his gut unclenched marginally, enough to allay the slight nausea that had been building up over the past few days. "You know about hunters though?"

"My family's been in the business for generations. But I've only been taught about werewolves, not ghosts," answered Allison pointedly. "But you've hunted them before?"

"Yeah, my brother and I sort of live for this kind of thing." Sam busied himself with looking around the small office as he spoke. Most of the instruments had been cleared away to their proper place, but there was a pile of gauze that had yet to be ordered. "We look through articles, bizarre claims on absurd blogs to try and find something that might be—unnatural."

"Don't you have a life?"

Sam wasn't sure if Stiles had meant it as it came out, but he understood the implication. "That's kinda our job. We know how to deal with things like a deranged Casper or Cousin It when most people would probably run the other way." He stopped his distracting search of the room and faced the Beacon Hills pack. "What about you? How is it a small town like this has an overwhelmingly unbalanced ratio of monst—creatures to humans?"

Scott, Stiles, and Allison cringed simultaneously, not completely obvious but enough to draw attention to them. They shared a glance, something Sam was well too aware of what it entailed. He and Dean had shared enough of them under the circumstances of facing an overly curious suspect or interfering cops. The look that automatically synced their stories to fit one line of thought under questioning.

"There may have been a situation that ignited a beacon of sorts, drawing any supernatural entity in the Western Hemisphere to Beacon Hills," Stiles intoned.

"What kind of situation?"

"A ritual sacrifice."

Sam knew it wasn't funny, in fact his reaction was callous, but the tone with which Stiles stated it was so sheepishly casual that Sam snorted in his attempted to stifle the smirk and chortle that surfaced. To further disguise his apathetic response, he cleared his throat, "so, uh, how have you managed to keep all this quiet? I mean, with six people getting sacrificed and werewolves running around, don't people notice something's off?"

Stiles scratched the back of his head, scrunching his expression. "Well, Beacon Hills is sort of inhabited largely by an adult population that is either clueless, or in perpetual denial," he explained straightly. "Either way, it's a good thing since half their kids are growing facial hair within seconds."

"Wait, your parents know about you being werewolves? None of them?" That was one hell of a secret. Especially if they're running wild, howling at the moon once a month.

"My dad's dead," Isaac stated easily. Again, there was a surprising lack of empathy in their voices as they spoke so obviously and casually about something that should have held more meaning behind it. Scott and Stiles grimaced at Isaac disapprovingly, at which the other boy shrugged.

"My mom knows, actually," Scott continued, putting the awkward questions behind. "And Stiles's dad just found out."

"The sheriff knows? Does he know about me?"

"He thinks you really do work for the FBI. Which is going to be an awkward conversation," reflected Stiles quietly. He shrugged to himself, deeming the future exchange unworthy of his attention at the moment. "Why fake being an FBI agent anyways?"

It was Sam's turn to shrug, fiddling with the phone in his hand behind him. "Makes everything easier. I've been an FBI agent, lawyer, university student, you name it. People don't exactly open up to strangers without a reason," he answered distractedly. He hadn't noticed until now, but his phone had been quiet since earlier that afternoon. No calls had come in from Dean, Ellen, anyone, and it unnerved Sam a little. He hadn't realized how often he had let it ring its electronic heart out until it was no longer sounding. He flipped open the device and searched the screen. No calls or messages were listed, the only announcement being the bold One-oh-three that was displayed at the top.

"Look," Sam said, trying to stifle the groan that wanted to come out. "Why don't we just meet up tomorrow? I get that you have questions and you probably don't trust everything I've said—"

Derek snorted in agreement and disbelief from the corner, and Sam dutifully continued despite the flash of heat that graced the back of his neck, "—but it'll be easier to get things done when we're not sleep deprived. Besides, I've got things I need to do that don't involve retelling my entire life story to a bunch of kids."

"You're, like, four years older than us," protested Isaac, but he dropped his objection after a slow head shake from his alpha.

Scott nodded. "You don't trust us and we don't trust you, but…" he sighed and held out his hand to Sam, "you know how to stop this thing from killing people?"

Sam took the offering and shook the younger one's hand. "I know how to kill it."

~•~

**11:25 a.m.**

"Don't you have school?" Sheriff Stilinski wasn't surprised that his son and Scott had randomly and yet still predictably shown up at the station. He had given up a long time ago trying to decipher whether or not Stiles actually had a 'free period' because he had to, at some point in time, actually have one.

He held up a hand, stemming the words about to flow so easily from his son's mouth. "Don't tell me. I don't wanna know."

Stiles had the ability to look sheepish and offended at the same time, although he overcame the feelings when he ushered himself into the sheriff's office. He paused then shuffled back out of the room, a key ring jingling in his hand. The sheriff snatched them out of his hands, eliciting a small yelp from the kid as his finger was caught in the ring.

"What do you think your doing?"

Stiles rocked on his feet expectantly and acted like his actions were not only justified but obvious. He'd been acting that way ever since he got home past two o'clock in the morning. He had avoided the sheriff's questioning skillfully, turning everything around with grace that the sheriff could only stand at the base of the stairs in befuddlement.

Scott, thankfully, took the silence for his cue to explain what Stiles was waiting for. "We have a lead on how to take care of the," he glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to hear the discussion, "ghost."

"I thought you took care of it last night?"

"We were going to, but..." Stiles began to shepherd his father and friend out of the station, stealthily avoiding any entanglement with deputies. "…there was a situation with a glock and a werewolf." He had timed the ending of his statement to align with them exiting the building, except they hadn't made it quite that far. They were just past the front counter when he broke the news, and the sheriff's reaction was as predicted but came too quick.

"_What_?"

"Don't worry, we got it handled. Well Scott did, but still."

"That's not comforting," he hissed. The deputy manning the counter was more than curious over the conversation, although she kept her distance. Worried about the possible incursion, Scott and Stiles angled Stilinski out of the station.

"Dad, we just need you to pull the guys off the Mason house," Stiles explained once they were huddled around the sheriff's SUV.

"Couldn't I have just done that from my office? And I did that. Last night, when apparently you were being attacked by gun-wielding ghosts!"

"The ghost didn't have a gun. The hunter did."

"What hunter?"

"The FBI agent."

Sheriff Stilinski froze. "The agent?" Sure the sheriff found a special agent investigating a local murder suspicious, but did there have to be something deeper than a man's strange pet peeve?

"Yeah," grinned Stiles, "turns out he's a ghost hunter." His grinned found Scott, who apparently didn't find the situation as amusing as his counterpart. "I feel like we're well rounded now. Got a hunter for every occasion at this point."

Instead of intervening in the conversation going on between the two boys, the sheriff dialed the number of the officers watching the house and told them it was no longer necessary. "I doubt anyone will want to see the crime scene and our guys have already gotten all we needed."

The deputies agreed, and the sheriff had already climbed inside his car by the time he had slipped the phone back into his pocket. He glanced at Stiles and Scott questioningly. "Well?"

~•~

**11:44 a.m.**

He knew he shouldn't be surprised by how many cars were already at the scene, but the emotion still reared its ugly head. Three assorted cars were parked obviously in front of the Mason's house, their occupants either reclining against the hoods or standing casually beside them. The Sheriff pulled up next to the menacing SUV that was at least parked in the street, offering the appearance of someone visiting any other house on the street. If a neighbor happened to glance outside, he or she'd be gifted with the view with a bunch of teenagers looking for a thrill at a crime scene, and the sheriff just hoped they wouldn't call the police to report it. Luckily there were precious few houses, and the ones that were were littered far away from each other

The other two cars, an all-too familiar jeep that had arrived just before the sheriff and a small smokey blue Camry, were parked in the stone driveway. Allison stood to the side of her car, looking any where but at her father or Scott, and Isaac was trying to act like being alone with the two hunters didn't bother him. Stiles was anxiously waiting for…something. And once the sheriff had clambered out of his own car, he knew what. A rattling old pick-up truck was the last to arrive, it's driver not quite frowning but also not in any way smiling as he joined the congregation.

"Agent," the sheriff greeted, although he was already aware that the title had been fictitious—judging by the young appearance and the ratty old jeans he now wore, the sheriff pegged the 'agent' at being around twenty-five or younger. And there was no way he was an actual federal agent.

"Sheriff," he nodded back, smiling a greeting at the others.

"My daughter says you're a hunter?" Chris Argent placed himself protectively in front of Allison, much to her chagrin. He held out his hand, "Chris Argent."

With a fleeting glance at the sheriff and something that was close to contriteness, the hunter took the hand and replied, "Sam Winchester."

"Winchester?" Chris Argent smiled tightly, almost like there was something malicious behind it. "I knew your father, and brother. Good hunters. It's been years since I've seen them though, still up to the same things?"

Sam bit his lip, a sudden uncomfortable cloud shrouding his eyes. "Dad died a few months back," he replied succinctly, answering the unasked question, "demon."

His gaze avoided the sympathies that emanated from everyone. He didn't need their pity, something the sheriff knew well enough. The last thing someone like Sam wanted was to be coddled, and it was something only someone like Stilinski would understand. And he did.

"I think it'd be a good idea to keep going. Find the ghost and—" Stilinski rested a hand along his cheek and blew out his breath. "I don't even know what you do with a ghost. Send it to Heaven? Kill it?"

"Salt and burn it," supplied Sam. "You find whatever is holding it here and destroy the link." He had started for the front door, pausing only long enough for the key to be passed up the line. "Usually," he continued, "it's their remains, the corpse, but sometimes it's an item of meaning."

"Like a murder weapon?" suggested Isaac, stepping into the house after Sam with caution. After all there had been a maniacal ghost there the night before. The train of hunters and kids alike led through the house to the back, where the bedroom and kitchen were. Allison and Isaac moved to the hall, reveling in the fact the haunted house was filled with an abundance of light. The sheriff himself was glad there was no need for flashlights, and that there was a variety of people—werewolves, werewolf hunters, ghost hunters, and a law enforcement officer with a permit to carry lethal weaponry—helped assuage his fear of a ghost attack.

"Could be. Something like a necklace or a wedding ring." Sam was pacing the bedroom, a strange device whirring in his hand as he spoke. He grinned to himself despite the not-so-happy topic. "This one time, Dean and I were fighting a ghost and it was this guy's old teeth. Apparently he'd buried them in the walls when he was a kid because he was so dedicated to catching the tooth fairy."

Sam paused in his searching, sighing at the device when it was barely making any movement. "Last night, I was getting a reading off something in the bedroom," he said by way of explanation. "Now there doesn't seem to be anything."

He addressed the sheriff, "your men weren't in here earlier, were they?"

"You think they took the object with them?" Argent came into the bedroom, slipping something back into his pocket as he questioned the other hunter. "You think that's how the ghost is choosing it's victims?"

"I can't think of any other reason. Ghosts haunt places where they die or they jump from person to person. I can't figure out how it went from possessing the Kyles to the Masons."

"Parrish," the sheriff said, holding up a silencing finger when Stiles and Scott had joined everyone in the bedroom. "I need to know if anyone went into the Mason house since last night?"

~•~

**12:01 p.m.**

"Inventory?" The sheriff sounded mad, Sam decided. "I told them not to go inside!" The sheriff sighed, sounding more like a deflating growl, and quietly thanked the deputy on the other line. He was pinching his eyes shut before he replied. "It seems a few of the deputies took it upon themselves to take inventory. They removed a few items from the house they thought were suspicious, but I have no idea what they mean by 'suspicious.' I'm willing to bet whatever is trying the ghost to Beacon Hills is now in Evidence."

The sheriff excused himself, growling something about deputies and sons giving him a heart attack, but Stiles only grinned sheepishly as his dad pulled back out onto the street and drove away. He and Scott began their descent out of the house without even asking if the others had found anything.

Sam wondered if that was generally how they solved their problems. Work for a few minutes then move onto the next task. He couldn't imagine they got much done with that process, although they hadn't had John Winchester drilling in the proper method to finding a ghost or monster. Whatever the kids did, it seemed to work nevertheless.

One by one, they began to file out of the house, Sam and Chris Argent being the last to close the door. Without needing to be told to, Scott, Isaac, and Stiles trotted around the house, just to check out if they could find anything without really expecting to. Allison, despite the original awkwardness, had sidled up with her friends and was complaining somewhat about a test they were supposed to be having in a few periods.

"It was Sam, right?" Argent's voice was subtly dubious, his voice overshadowing the crunching of the gravel of the driveway under his feet. He had fallen behind the company as they traipsed farther away from the house, down along the side by the road. "Dean's little brother?"

Caution intensified the fervent pressure in the back of Sam's throat. The feeling only peaked when he identified a sound that snapped an inch away from his ear. Sam concluded he had been in the hunting game too long when he could distinguish not only that the sound was indeed a gun being armed but that it was a Walther PK series. But still, Sam turned around, his face assaulted by the business end of a handgun.

Almost immediately, like a sixth sense, the others noticed the beginning of the altercation, and they immediately halted and fell back around the two hunters, although none passed the invisible demarcation line surrounding them.

"Dad," Allison cried, "what are you doing?"

"Sam Winchester," he said in way of answer.

"Let me guess: you've got some beef with my dad," Sam growled, mechanically raising his hands to promise no funny business. "Well, sorry to disappoint, but he died a while ago. Kind of puts a damper on your revenge scheme."

Argent ignored the venom in the youngest Winchester's voice and strengthened his hold on the grip. "Gordon Walker."

The breath was crushed out of Sam's lungs and he felt a feeling similar to drowning: pressure to inhale but knowing something lethal awaited him if he did.

"He's been spreading the word that whoever sees Sam Winchester shouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger," Argent continued.

"Dad, that's insane. Put the gun down."

All around the two hunters, there were small utterances, repetitions of "Put the gun down," and "What are you doing?" but Sam's sole focus was on the grey eyes split by the steel alloy. The entire cosmos was centered on the hunters because Sam had no doubt Argent would put down anything he deemed a monster dangerous to the world—exactly what his father and brother would do.

"Gordon Walker wants you dead. Why?"

"Maybe because he's insane," Sam tried to scoff, but it came out as a frustrated snarl. "My brother and I, we left him tied up in his own filth for three days. That doesn't exactly inspire comradeship."

"No. It's more than that," Argent cocked the Pk. Vaguely, Sam tried to read the expression behind the cold eyes, tried to read whether or not he intended to shoot, or whether he just wanted to get answers. "It's something to do with who you are."

He leveled the gun against Sam's forehead, the icy metal contrasting against the younger man's nervous fever. Sam blinked reflexively, but when he opened them, everything had changed.

A brown leather and blue jean shadow collided with Argent, taking down both the hunter and the gun. They tumbled in the leaves and rolled repeatedly as the momentum overshot any restraint and resistance either men had. Sam's first instinct was that one of the wolves had tackled the hunter, but a quick tally of heads burned that conclusion like it was kerosene. Both the werwolves and their two human friends were staring, frozen, at the wrangling shapes, each half trying to get the upper hand. Slowly, the two shapes distinguished themselves, the initial aggressor becoming clear and emerging from the fundamental blur.

Sam's feet finally moved of their own accord, and he found himself gawking down at two men, on being Argent, now disarmed and glowering at the assailant, and the other holding the gun menacingly and murderously angry. He struck Argent, closed fist, and shouting, "You do that to my brother, I'll kill you!"

Dean made it to his feet without once wavering the gun, and Argent held his jaw sensitively and protectively.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. He halted at his brother's side but didn't touch him. "Dean, stop."

There was a flash of hazel brown eyes as he glimpsed at his brother out of the corner of his eyes, but Dean's head shook marginally. He realigned his grip on the gun. "Can't do that, Sammy."

"You know this guy?" demanded a voice from behind Sam. It had come from the Isaac, who still rarely spoke, and it took Sam by surprise. But the surprise was lost when Stiles smirked.

"Sammy?" he snorted.

Sam paused, twisting momentarily to glare venomously at the boy to his right, before he stepped closer to Dean and raised his hands in pacifying gestures. He still refrained from touching his brother. He wasn't ready to do that yet. Somehow, Sam equated touching his brother with forgiving him, with comforting Dean with the knowledge that Sam didn't hold whatever it was he felt against Dean, and he wasn't prepared to let that go yet.

Sam reached far enough for Dean's offending grip that his brother shrugged it away. A steel curtain fell over Sam's vision, and he agreed with the movement made. _He really doesn't believe I won't turn dark side_, his conscious whispered in the abysmal darkness of Sam's mind. _Fine_.

When he spoke, his voice was detached, cold. "Dean, put the gun down."

Dean heard the change in his voice, and this time more than just his eyes flickered to his brother's face. With jerking motions, he lowered the gun, although Dean held onto it tightly and was prepared for any aggressive movement towards his fraternal charge.

"You ditched me, Sammy," he said too lightly, hiding the gut-wrenching feeling he'd had ever since he'd woken up and his baby brother was gone.

"I had some things I had to work out," Sam replied tersely. He knew the wolf pack was watching the altercation with strained control, that they were aware how close it had been to a crime scene, but they also knew that intervening where they shouldn't—in the business of those specific hunters, at that specific time—was not a wise life choice. "Ellen call you?" Sam finished.

There was a small jerk of the head and Dean's attention moved to the others at the side of the house. There was nothing unordinary about the kids, except for the fact they were completely fine with the appearance of a gun and some random maniac holding it in another man's face. Dean fixed his eyes on each of the teenagers, trying to get a read on who or what they were. "Who're they?"

Sam knew what they were going to do before Scott had even moved. Maybe it was because Sam had admitted to knowing Dean, that they were both hunters, but Scott had begun to incline his head, like he had done the night before when the alpha revealed his nature through his eyes. And Sam knew he couldn't let them, not when Dean was still so dedicated to his father's mandates of a 'monster is a monster, no matter the shape or form.'

"They're the ones who found the ghost in the first place," Sam said hurriedly, "He's a hunter," indicating Argent who was still standing protectively, like he was under attack.

Dean speculated Sam intently, the loathing glower disappearing when his eyes were trained on his brother. Either he was making sure no harm had come to his baby brother, deciding which side of his face should receive the shiner he intended to give his brother, or determining whether Sam was hiding something or not.

"And they're completely OK with the fact Casper's real?"

"They're well adjusted." Sam paused and sent a meaningful, silent warning at the pack. 'Not yet.' If Dean caught the glance or found the hesitation suspicious, he didn't say anything. "Look, Dean. This ghost…somehow it's moving from place to place, and it's leaving a trail of bodies wherever it goes."

"Is this your way of asking for help, Sammy?"

With clenched jaw, he grudgingly accepted, "yes."

* * *

><p><strong>So, this is going to follow my own thought process as well as some of TW season 3B<br>**

**also I know it seems like it may be moving fast seeing as it's taken place over like five days, but now that Dean's here it's gonna slow down**

**bonus points to anyone who can tell me what the french equivalent is for the Bitch/Jerk ritual thing Sam and Dean do. I've been watching the French dub but I cant figure out what they say.**

**as always REVIEW!**


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